


In Flagrante Delicto

by blackazuresoul



Category: Trinity Blood
Genre: Gen, Mindfuck, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackazuresoul/pseuds/blackazuresoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ennui breeds duplicity and Dietrich finds it is truly a double-edged sword.<br/>Prompt: “It is double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Judas Had Given Them The Slip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seshats_prodigy (JennyB)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennyB/gifts).



The train ride was uneventful and only supplemented by a solitary cup of tea, though bereft of an adequate selection from the lunch trolley. Abel sighed as he peered down into the dregs of his china cup. Undissolved sugar lay in the bottom, sifting with the movement of the cup, like so much sand. He tipped it to drain the overly sweet leavings and set it gently on the saucer then peered out at the rolling countryside.  
  
He’d never been to Macedonia and Abel had puzzled as to why Caterina chose him to be the Vatican’s Emissary. But he went where she sent him, though he wished his purse would have been lined accordingly. It would be embarrassing to arrive at the seat of the Marquisate with a growling stomach– a point he failed to impress upon the Duchess of Milan.  
  
Abel went over the details of the early morning meeting between them both. Zero-six-hundred hours; more than flesh and blood could stand, in his opinion. Count Krstovar Niš, the Marquis of Macedonia, was by all accounts a recluse. The people in neighbouring provinces had spun all sorts of tales about him over the years, running the gamut from speculating on his true age to more fanciful suppositions of ogres, hellish beasts and even fae-folk. He seemed to govern by proxy, a collection of paramilitary police that kept order in the capital and surrounds, though they were quite often idle.  
  
Abel knew the greater significance of the Marquisate. It was a border country, situated between the Vatican Domain and the New Human Empire– led by the equally elusive Augusta Vradica. There had been negotiations over the years between the Vatican and the Marquisate to keep it neutral and the Vatican had come to understand that talks had taken place between the Empire and Macedonia, for likely the same reason.  
  
The Count had confirmed he had no interest in being absorbed by either entity, though he hesitated to establish Skopje as a _Free City_. Due to the borders shared, the Marquisate held both Methuselah and Human within its bounds– two peoples who had managed to keep a fragile peace– and any disputes were quickly silenced.  
Trade flourished between Macedonia and her surrounding neighbours, their main interests being the high quality of metals and radiation-free chemicals.  
  
A private car collected Abel and delivered him to the palace, situated within the walls of the ancient _Kale_. The setting sun painted the high walls of the fortress a soft peach and threw the inner courtyard into a sublime half-light. Several guards flanked the main entry into the palace and Abel nodded to them as he and his escort passed through the open doors. The priest adjusted his glasses and crossed the foyer, a pace behind the willowy olive-skinned man.  
  
At Caterina’s insistence, Abel was dressed in the traditional garb of a Macedonian noble and he conceded that perhaps it was just as well he hadn’t stuffed himself with all the delecasies the lunch trolley showcased, given the form-fitting vest he wore. It was knee-length and buttoned from collar to waist, done in a rich burgundy velvet with fine silver filagree worked into the fibres over a loose-sleeved black silk shirt that fitted to his wrists. He had struggled with tucking the thin, black trousers into the tops of his riding boots but managed to keep them as crease-free as possible.  
  
As they walked further into the palace, Abel cast his gaze about him, taking in the elabourate furnishings and artwork that graced the main room. He had been told that the Count would receive him in his private office and the sounds of their boots echoed as they crossed the marble floor to a set of carved wood doors. His escort announced them both and Abel ran a cursory hand over his vest then entered, a twinge of anticipation picking at his brain– afraid the rumours were true about the Marquis.  
  
The outer room of the office was done in dark woods and inviting sofas flanked a large stone fireplace and it was here that Abel saw the ‘ogre’. The man stood up with a warm smile and crossed the flokati rug with an elegant hand extended. Abel corrected his askew mouth to reflect the Marquis’ gesture and when he gripped his hand, found himself meeting the deepest green eyes he’d ever seen. In short, the Count was the furthest thing from an ogre as the Holy Virgin was from a harpy.  
  
Abel loosed a nervous chuckle as they shook hands. “Good evening and thank you for receiving me, Your Lordship,” he greeted, keeping the smile for a bit. The Marquis moved his hand from Abel’s to his own chest and tipped his chin then reclaimed the priest’s gaze.  
  
“You are warmly welcomed, Abel Nightroad. I have not received an Emissary from the Vatican for many years, now,” he said and waved them toward where a tea had been set out on the table between the two sofas. “Please, have a seat.” The pair sat opposite one another and Krstovar reached for the teapot when Abel interjected.  
  
“Oh, please allow me.” Abel deftly picked up the pot and filled both cups. The Marquis quietly chuckled and watched the priest pour out, selecting a bisquit for himself.  
  
“I trust your trip to my country was pleasant?” he asked and held a small saucer beneath the sweet as he took a bite. Abel added milk to his tea but to his horror, no sugar was to be found. He tossed a smile to Krstovar and sat back with his cup.  
  
“Thank you, yes. What I had seen before nightfall was quite beautiful,” he replied and took a sip of the beverage, pleasantly surprised it had already been sweetened with honey. The Marquis saw the smile that curled on Abel’s face and he swallowed his mouthful before speaking.  
  
“Do forgive me if the tea is cloying in any way, Father. I’m afraid I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” he confessed, to which Abel assured him he was in no way offended then took a tiny frosted square of cake from the tray.  
Krstovar finished his cookie then claimed his tea, propping its saucer on his crossed leg. He watched Abel go between sips of tea and the sweets and a soft, amused snort brought blue eyes up to his host. “My friend, have you not dined?” The Marquis raised a hand to snap his fingers and a servant seemingly appeared from nowhere to attend him, silently nodding as the noble spoke in his sensual mother tongue to fetch supper.  
Abel put down his cup and cookie to protest. He hadn’t come for the Count to pity him and provide a meal! He felt a blush creep onto his cheeks as he gestured animately.  
  
“No, no! I really don’t think that’s necessary!” Abel protested. Krstovar waved the servant away then, and resumed his tea while Abel prayed his stomach wouldn’t refute him. “I really...what I mean to say is,” Abel stammered but quickly schooled himself, adjusting his glasses. “Unhappily this is more than a social call, Your Lordship,” he revealed and eyed a lonely petit four but raised his gaze to the Marquis. “We– that is to say– the Vatican, have reason to believe Macedonia is being targeted by the Rosenkreuz Orden. As a known neutrality, it is imperative that the Marquisate be made aware of this and safeguard itself appropriately. To that end, the Vatican wishes to extend the offer of protection to you.”  
  
Niš’ brow arched and his cup stilled halfway to his lips that then parted for a ethereal grin. He finished his tea and gently placed the saucer onto the table between them. “Protection?” Krstovar aped amusedly. “Father Nightroad, Macedonia has been the somewhat uncomfortable middle to your Vatican and the Empire for centuries. We enjoy trade with both at minimal discord and are content to keep it that way. I will not allocate unfair advantage to one or the other.”  
  
Abel sat forward, keeping his expression tightly controlled. “Count Krstovar, this is not about advantage, nor is it about trade. This is about an organisation that seeks to ruin what human beings and Methuselah have laboured on since Armaggedon.” Abel folded his hands in his lap. “Are you aware of the recent events to your north, Sir?” The raven-haired Marquis frowned and took another bisquit from the tray then sat back.  
  
“The Marquisate of Hungaria is no concern of mine, Father,” he answered. “I knew His Excellency well but the man was mad, driven by the death of his wife– a death caused by the very people she cared for.” Krstovar bit into the sweet, chewed and swallowed quickly. “The things men do in the name of love,” he mused casually and Abel changed tracks.  
  
“Lord Gyula was driven by the machinations of one of the Orden, Marquis. Compelled to turn the technology which his wife restored for peace into a weapon that he unwittingly delivered into their hands.” Abel sighed and unfolded his hands. “The Vatican begs you to keep a careful eye on your industry.” The Count chuckled coolly and wiped his hands on a serviette then tossed the cloth onto the lowtable.  
  
“I wonder, _prȉjatelj_. Would your aegis be so forthcoming, were Macedonia’s resources non-existent?” he asked with a small smile and leaned forward to pour Abel and himself another cup of tea. “I can assure you, we and our industry are quite safe. But I have no issue inviting trade with other entities that have need of our mines and labouratories.” Krstovar again sat back with his cup. “Albion, for instance, has been a regular vendee for decades. I will not limit myself to the two dominions between which I unfortunately seem to be sandwiched.”  
  
“I understand that, Your Lordship. My intent is not to cause undue strife with this, but only to emphasise the need for caution,” Abel explained, leaving his teacup on its saucer. “Cardinal Sforza wishes to continue positive relations with Macedonia and recognises your seat. However, she grows concerned that the Marquisate does not realise the gravity of the situation.” Niš sipped at his tea then placed the cup onto its saucer with a quiet sound and smiled at Abel.  
  
“And what would happen to my people, were I to allow the Vatican to run rampant through the streets of Skopje? Do not think I haven’t seen how they operate.” He lowered the saucer to the table. “This is a Catholic country, Father, but I will not have it made a church state by the will of the Sancta Sedes,” Krstovar stated with a slightly narrowed gaze.  
  
Abel again held up his hands, his eyes wide. “Please! No! That is not the Vatican’s wish, Count Krstovar! Only that we can be relied upon, should you need us.” The Marquis laid an arm over the back of the sofa and rolled his ankle within its stiff boot.  
  
“Allow me to tell you precisely why I have not received an Emissary from the Vatican in some years,” he began and let a stretch of silence fill the room before continuing. “The last dignitary requested, no, _demanded_ that I allow the Department of Inquisition of all things into these borders; for my _protection_. Though he failed to inform me precisely as to why that was necessary, I quickly hazarded a guess. The Methuselah that live here do so under my auspices, as do the Terrans. Do you think I am so ignorant that I don’t know the Roman Curia’s true agenda?” Abel gaped for a moment and rested his arms on his knees, his hands folded between.  
  
“Be assured Her Eminence does not support that motivation, Marquis. Truly,” he clarified.  
  
“And how, may I ask, did the good Cardinal arrive at this ridiculous hypothesis?” Krstovar chuckled briefly, his eyes quickly flitting over the garb the priest wore before returning to the startling blue of his gaze.  
  
“I’m afraid I cannot divulge that, Excellency,” Abel replied evenly and the Count laughed.  
  
“Then I can only hang it on speculation,” Niš countered, softly shaking his head. “If I were to allow even the AX into these borders, how long do you think it would be before I had the Empire breathing down my neck? No. Macedonia will not be an arena for anyone’s pissing match,” he affirmed and rose from his seat.  
Abel followed suit and bowed his head to the noble, though his jaw was set against the man’s intractable viewpoint. Caterina would be most displeased, but there was little Abel could do. He could not force the Marquis to change his mind– possibly leading to a break in the trade the Vatican Domain had worked hard to establish centuries ago.  
  
“I must apologise for offending you, Count Krstovar. I will withdraw.” Abel straightened and the raven nodded at a nearby servant. The man opened the door to reveal the escort that Abel had come in with and the Marquis bowed in turn.  
  
“I am confident that the Duchess of Milan will understand the position of the Marquisate, Father Nightroad. This country shall remain as she always has,” he stated and watched the priest trek to the door, then follow the escort from sight. As the heavy door was closed the sound of measured applause, muted by gloves, echoed from the shadows of the room and Dietrich stepped forward into the light.  
  
“Well played, Niš,” he lauded and gestured for the man to sit. Krstovar rigidly resumed his seat on the sofa and Dietrich sat on the one opposite then crossed his legs with a ribald smile. “I believe we understand one another.” The Marquis let a frown cross his brow then smoothed back his shoulder-length hair.  
  
“You realise I’m taking a dangerous risk here, Dietrich. I will not have open conflict in this land,” he stated and dropped his hand to the cushion next to him. “If the Empire gets wind of this– “ The younger man giggled lowly and availed himself of a petit four.  
  
“Oh nevermind,” Dietrich droned then popped the sweet in his mouth, watching the Marquis shift nervously in his seat.  
  
“I unquestionably _do_ mind! I have managed to keep both they and the Holy See at bay all these years and I will not see Macedonia succumb to either. Not while breath yet enters this body.” Dietrich picked a fallen crumb off the leg of his crisp, black trousers and ate it, brushing off the rest onto the carpet beneath his feet.  
  
“And that is why I’m here, my dear Count,” he countered with a grin. “We provide what you need, you provide what we need. I can think of no simpler way to explain that.” Dietrich lifted Abel’s teacup to his lips and drained it of the now tepid beverage then winced at the taste. “I’d hate to think of this beautiful land being overran by the Fangs of the Church– or the Empire.” The puppetmaster paused a moment then turned a winsome smile to the other man. “Imagine. Being cannon fodder for the Vatican, or _hrána_ for the Empire. Not a comfortable place to be, Your Worship.” Krstovar’s brow twitched as he watched the redhead pour himself another cup of tea and snatch a frosted bisquit.  
  
“I don’t need you to remind me of that, von Lohengrin,” he bristled and Dietrich bit into the cookie, the corners of his lips peeling upward as he chewed. He licked his lips then sent the tip of his tongue over his upper teeth and peered at the handsome Marquis over the treat.  
  
“Good. The plant near the Vardar river should suffice, I believe,” Dietrich purred and broke the bisquit in half then popped one of them in his mouth. Krstovar growled and his hands smacked his own legs as he sat forward.  
  
“Are you insane, boy?! I will not allow you or your _things_ to be in such close proximity to the Kale. No, the factory in Orman is well-suited to your purposes,” he shot back with a glare and the gaze opposite him twinkled in dark amusement.  
  
“We agreed on the Vardar location, Your Rectitude. Do we need to re-negotiate?” Dietrich asked coyly, the tone of his voice not matching the cold moue that hovered. The Marquis’ shoulders fell as he let out a quiet exhale and he briefly touched fingers to his forehead.  
  
“Fine. But if the Vatican decide to try their hand again…” Dietrich ate the other cookie half and washed it down with his tea, his demeanour congenial– like they had been politely discussing the weather. A sharp leer rose on his lips as he laid both arms along the back of the sofa.  
  
“They won’t. You will continue your trade and the Orden will see that the Marquisate of Macedonia is free of any holy entanglements,” he affirmed. Krstovar sucked on a tooth and smirked.  
  
“And I take it _you_ represent their interests,” he murmured with a modicum of disbelief. Dietrich cocked a brow and straightened his legs to then cross them at the ankles and propped his boots on the table between them.  
  
“Just be certain your Vardar plant remains _under repair_ in the meantime, Kris,” Dietrich purred with a cheeky wink.  
  
  
  
Caterina sat behind her desk, elbows propped on the mirror gloss surface, her chin lightly supported on woven fingers as she regarded her uneasy priest. “This is a disappointment, though not completely unexpected,” she opined and a thick curl fell from her shoulder to coil on the desktop. “I imagine I would be uneasy with unsolicited advice, were I in His Excellency’s shoes.” Abel sighed in his seat and idly fingered the rosary that hung on his neck, a gloved digit blindly counting the spines that flanked the one side of the crucifix.  
  
“The man is a fool, Your Eminence, and his country a prime wedge to further drive between the Vatican and the Empire,” he remarked, raising a brow on the woman’s forehead.  
  
“ ‘They that were foolish took their lamps, and took no oil with them’,” Caterina quoted then sat back in the buttoned leather seat, laying her arms on the rests. “But it’s neither here nor there. Regardless, the Ministry of Holy Affairs will keep an eye on the Marquisate of Macedonia, as we always have.” She removed her monocle and pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her robe and began polishing the glass. Caterina observed Abel looking askance at the window of her office and she softly cleared her throat, drawing him back, and offered a small smile. “Do not be troubled, Abel. It was an uncertain mission and you conveyed our readiness to the Marquisate– that is all I hoped for.”  
  
“The Count pretty much told me to get knotted, my Lady,” Abel replied then fussed with his glasses as he looked away, feeling warmth in his cheeks. A whispered ghost of a chuckle danced briefly on the Duchess’ throat and she replaced the monocle, tucking the kerchief back into her sleeve.  
  
“I thought he would have seen the import, especially after what occurred in Hungary. But, as Count Krstovar said, it’s speculation on our part. At least he gave no indication of anything untoward occurring within his borders,” Caterina reasoned and Abel nodded. The Marquis had been quite pleasant, until Abel had delivered his warning. In retrospect, he wished he would have broached the subject with a little more finesse than he had, but Abel was also familiar with the old adage about the perfection of hindsight. “Any additional discussion surely would have raised undue suspicion.”  
  
Tres had done his daily sweep of the Cardinal’s offices and efficiently informed her that no taps had been detected but Caterina lowered her voice, nonetheless. “We will keep this matter within the AX. The last thing the Vatican needs is to have the Department of Inquisition marching across Macedonia’s border.” Thin, gloved fingers drummed quietly along the surface of the desk and she stilled them. “Francesco does _not_ need a reason to unchain his minions handed to him on a silver platter.”  
  
Abel rose from his chair and strolled to the large window that overlooked the city’s gardens. Flowers of every hue dotted the well-landscaped lawns, coupled with fruit trees just beginning to produce their first crop. “Tell me, Your Eminence. Do you believe the intel you received with regard to the Marquisate of Macedonia?” he asked and watched a swallow flit from one tree to the next. Caterina studied Abel’s back for a moment.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “Information can, as you know, be faulty and does not always equate with knowledge.” Abel peered over his shoulder at his boss, a platinum brow cocked above his glasses.  
  
“Do _you_ believe what was reported to you, Caterina?” he prodded evenly and honey eyes blinked once behind blonde lashes.  
  
“I can neither accept it as truth, nor discredit it. But because of it, I am inclined to monitor any future communiqué,” she affirmed and Abel turned back to the vista, still not understanding why Caterina kept so much from him. He knew she suspected the intel was reliable and not just a shot in the dark. The Duchess of Milan, as Abel had come to know, always held her cards close to her vest and never, _ever_ let you know she held the trump.  
  
  
  
Keeping a room in the palace, Dietrich oversaw the creation of his Autojägers. The necessary corpses were easy enough to acquire and no questions were asked by either party.  
The newest line of the Hunters utilised Macedonia’s rich deposits of titanium and the union bosses were easily persuaded to deviate from their normal production schedules to accommodate Dietrich. Hand-selected _Kapos_ ensured specifications were taken to the exact and deadlines adhered to and the generous outpouring in the way of payoff to the bosses ensured the workers did as they were directed.  
  
Each animated corpse was outfitted with the lightweight armour that had been anodised to regulation black and at the end of a fortnight, Dietrich had amassed fifty of the creatures. Hands folded behind him, he walked the line of the finished Autojägers. They all stared forward behind red-lens goggles and a smile hung on their creator’s face. They would serve the Orden well and Dietrich knew Cain would be pleased he’d taken the initiative to add to the numbers in Germanicus that would await the Crusnik’s pleasure.  
  
Dietrich had himself made a deal with the Marquis and he was sure it would endear him to the enigmatic Contra Mundi. His Autojägers had proved themselves time and again in various conflicts with Terran and Methuselah alike. It was only a matter of time before Cain would call on their efficient numbers to advance His agenda and influence.  
The modified chip Dietrich had installed in each creature took the place of his neurostrings and was hardwired directly into the Hunters’ brains after the frontal lobe was excised. They would be even better than the original design and the Puppetmaster congratulated himself that he’d one-upped his mentor; pleased that it would be more than presumptuous to teach his teacher– it would be perspicacious.  
  
As he traversed the solid line of reanimated Methuselah, Dietrich turned pensive. Perhaps, he reasoned, if he could persuade Count Krstovar to align himself with the Rosenkreuz, Macedonia would be a perfect rod with which to drive both the Vatican and the Empire. He had ensured Isaak believed him to be in Wien on trivial Orden business and Dietrich left while he and Cain were in conference with the higher-ranking members of the organisation.  
  
Returning back to the Kale, Dietrich and Krstovar sat to a mostly silent supper, the occasional scrape of a fork against china cutting into the quiet. The Marquis looked up from his plate at his guest and dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “To your satisfaction, Herr von Lohengrin?” he asked tightly and Dietrich swallowed his mouthful then let a smile curl on his lips.  
  
“Quite. My compliments to the chef,” he replied and picked up a knife to cut into a chop of rare lamb, raising a closed grin before turning his attention back to his food. Krstovar laid his napkin back across his thigh and claimed his wineglass then sat back. It was bad enough that he’d made a deal with this devil, but to feed and house him as well was too much. It wasn’t Dietrich he feared, it was the rest of the Orden. Gyula had trusted in them to fulfill his twisted dreams and he currently laid beneath a marble slab in István for his troubles. “Your Lordship,” Dietrich piped up as he set down his knife. He licked his lips of the scant blood imparted from the meat, the tines of his fork poised to dive into a generous mound of _tavče-gravče_. “After we finish this lovely repast, I would like to discuss the terms of our agreement,” he revealed and green eyes subtly narrowed.  
  
“It will not be altered. Moreover, you’ve received that which we agreed upon, without contention,” he countered firmly and took a sip of his wine. A twittering chuckle hung about the far end of the table and Dietrich ate a bite of what he’d been told was the national dish.  
  
“After supper, Kris,” he sing-songed and went for another forkful of the bean concoction. Krstovar exhaled into his glass then drained the contents, calling to mind the sage proverb about spoiled children and lack of discipline.  
  
“Then, by all means get on with it,” the Marquis demanded and sat back so a servant could clear his place. Krstovar reached for a cigarette from a bowl to his left and lit it while he waited for the young man to finish.  
He got little out of the deal he’d made, though he had to admit things had lately been extraordinarily quiet. Krstovar never asked Dietrich about his soldiers, if that’s what one would call them, and the redhead offered little in the way of information regarding his business in Skopje. Several of them had been called upon to clandestinely patrol the streets of the capital and over the past fortnight, the Marquis received reports that it was running well, though some of his own force had reservations regarding the supplement troops.  
He’d have to sort it out later– which was looking like sooner, as Dietrich laid down his fork for the final time and took wineglass in hand.  
  
Krstovar walked with Dietrich to the den and watched the teen set his glass on an endtable and languidly stretch before slinking onto a sofa. His brow arched at the action and Dietrich settled on his stomach, his chin cradled in his hands as he sent a lascivious grin to the Marquis, now seated on a chair to the sofa’s right.  
Dietrich bent his knees to suspend crossed ankles, silently watching Krstovar smoke. The man elegantly crossed his legs and drew an ashtray closer to him, seemingly more interested in the cigarette than his guest. “Are you married, Niš?” Dietrich asked and the older man held his exhale for a moment then let it ribbon from his lips, replying in the negative. Dietrich drew the tip of his pinky in a soft arc and let it rest in the shallow valley beneath his lower lip. “Don’t you get lonely?”  
  
The Marquis tapped the ash of his cigarette and let out a very brief chuckle, the sound like razor blades amongst silk. “I was under the presumption that we were going to discuss our association, as it were, not your assumptions regarding my love life,” Krstovar gave back and took another draw off the stick. Dietrich watched the blue-grey smoke ribbon and curl on its way toward the ceiling. The tobacco was slightly perfumed but nothing like the clove or vanilla Isaak smoked that, though offensive to his want to keep clear lungs, had a very sensual smell to it. Krstovar, Dietrich had observed, licked the seam of his lower lip after each exhale when he smoked and long lashes blinked over caramel eyes before he replied.  
  
“Depends on your point of view, Your Lordship,” Dietrich lowly argued and dropped his crossed ankles for a moment. “I am pleased with our association thusfar but, as my mentor has taught me, they can always be improved– for the good of the transaction.” Krstovar cocked a brow and pivoted to extinguish his cigarette with a put-upon sigh.  
  
“What in the hell are you getting at, Dietrich?” he groaned and propped an elbow on the armrest, sharply regarding the lounging teen. The redhead gracefully moved to recline in the corner of the sofa and threw his arm along the stuffed back, crossing his legs. The corner of his mouth curled deviously and he draped the other arm over his torso. The message was conveyed without words and the Marquis touched his forehead with a cursory snicker.  
  
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he scoffed, his eyes devoid of amusement. “Not interested, _momče_.” It was Dietrich’s turn to effect an incredulous glance and before he could speak, Krstovar continued. “I don’t know what the Rosenkreuz is used to, though I can probably safely guess– given your actions. However, I do not conduct my business affairs in the bedroom,” he stated.  
  
Dietrich retrieved his wineglass and resumed his casual seat, the glass perched between his hanging fingers. “Who said anything about the bedroom, Excellency?” he countered with a prurient grin then raised the glass to his lips.  
  
The Marquis opened his mouth to retaliate when the sound of an explosion and the resultant shockwave hit the palace. He gripped the finials of the chair he was in, missing how the wine sloshed in Dietrich’s glass, spilling over to dampen his jacket and shirt. “What the..?!” Krstovar exclaimed and shot out of his seat as a guard broke into the den.  
  
“Your Lordship, someone has targeted the Memorial House,” he informed him and Dietrich stood, passing his palm down his front where the wine had spilled. He followed the guard and Krstovar out of the den and into the main hall, the two conversing in their native tongue. He gleaned that the monument was dedicated to a well-known Catholic saint and Dietrich’s brows knotted as the guard continued his report. “SPEK is en-route.”  
  
The Marquis waved over two more guards and twenty tense minutes had passed before one of them conversed in his earpiece then looked at the Count. “Sir, an eyewitness confirms the three attackers were cloaked and moved as a Methuselah. Whereabouts unknown at this time.” The guard paused to listen again then resumed the relay. “Acknowledged,” he replied and his eyes raised to the small party. “On-scene now and the FC is reporting the bombs contained TATP.” Krstovar ran a hand through his hair with a disquieting growl.  
  
Dietrich’s eyes widened then schooled themselves. The use of triacetone trioxide was his trademark, his own concoction to outfit his Hunters, but he wondered why they acted without order. The neurochip was one he’d been working on for the past year and thoroughly tested before application. This new development made no sense. The Autojägers never operated or so much _moved_ without his whim.  
  
Dietrich wore a puzzled brow and he stuffed his hands in his pockets as the soldiers wrapped up the briefing. Two of them left for the scene and Krstovar paced with the one that had initially informed him of the bombing.  
“Keep me apprised, Major,” he quietly commanded and the man saluted him. The Marquis then turned to Dietrich and observed the discomfiture that the teen tried to banish with fingers through the fringe of hair that flanked his eyes. Krstovar moistened the seam of his lips but said nothing as he crossed the room for the den. He went to the mantelpiece and selected a cigarette from a silver box. Not bothering to offer to his guest, Krstovar lit up and faced Dietrich.  
“Something troubling you, Herr von Lohengrin?” he drawled, holding his place at the marble outcropping.  
  
Dietrich refilled his glass and gracefully took a seat on the sofa. “Not at all,” he replied, bereft of any honourific, which the Count noted with a concealed grin.  
  
“You look worried, my friend,” Krstovar prodded and took a languid draw off his cigarette. A thin, black brow cocked above a green eye through the smoke. “You wouldn’t know anything about what happened tonight, would you?”  
Dietrich knew he could play it off, make this fool believe whatever he wanted him to believe, but his mind was so occupied with his Hunters that the strings remained unused.  
  
“Sounds like an inside job to me. I’m sure this town is rife with plants that could easily–“  
  
“You come into my city– into my country– with your demands and your _things_. Without question I cut a deal with your Orden, cede to your terms and even put up with your poor attempts at seduction and you have the _gall_ to lie to me?!” Krstovar’s voice grew as his rage percolated. “How _dare_ you attack the Memorial House!” Dietrich fought off the urge to laugh as the man chastised him but he quietly sipped at his wine as if watching an amusing pantomime.  
Krstovar pointed at the redhead, his smoke smouldering between tightly clamped fingers. “A holy site, Dietrich! Have you lost your goddamned mind!” he growled and flicked the cigarette into the fire at his right and the younger man came to his feet.  
  
“How dare you speak to me like that!” he shot back and set his glass down none too carefully.  
  
“If you bring the Vatican down on us–“  
  
“Marquis…”  
  
“They’ll demand an investigation and since the site is essentially under the stewardship of the Church, word will quickly reach the Holy See,” Krstovar added, his brows knotted above a darker gaze as he glared at the redhead. “You reneged on the deal, von Lohengrin,” he stated and the corner of Dietrich’s mouth curled.  
  
“I didn’t order the target, Niš!” he rejoined and blindly straightened his tie.  
  
“Bullshit!”  
  
“Why would I?”  
  
Krstovar crossed arms at his chest and paced the perimetre of the large flokati rug, his eyes trained on the slender young man. “I wonder about that. Let us review, shall we?” His fingers tightened along his upper arms then fell to tick each point. “The perpetrators were Methuselah, had bombs and were cloaked. I realise you haven’t been in Skopje long, but none of the Methuselah that live here have access to those components nor a reason to bring the Vatican down on their heads.”  
  
The Marquis crossed his arms again and haulted a foot away from his guest. Dietrich tipped his chin up to regard him with an arrogant grin.  
“Allow me to contact Berlin and we can thwart any unnecessary interference, should the Vatican once again cross your borders.” he offered and glanced over at a phone sitting on the endtable, next to his wine. Krstovar huffed, an indignant half-smile cracking his face.  
  
“And when Mein Herr stops _laughing_ , does Macedonia then declare war on Germanicus?” he retorted hotly. “We have many allies. Imagine, being cannon fodder for the Vatican, or _nahrung_ for the Empire. Not a comfortable place to be, little one.” Dietrich frowned. The man had thrown his own words back at him. There was no way he could contact his superiours without admitting he’d acted contrary to orders and he wasn’t sure that the Orden would bail him out of this one.  
  
“Perhaps I should have a word with your factory bosses, Your Lordship. After all, it’s clear to me this was resultant of faulty installation,” Dietrich hastily reasoned as he moved from behind the coffeetable to draw nearer to the Marquis. “Should have suspected subterfuge within the ranks of the fine workers of Skopje, hmm.” Dietrich tugged arrogantly at the lapels of his jacket and stepped over to the phone, calling his self-appointed production lead. In guttural German, he imparted orders to move out into the receiver and Krstovar’s brow shot up with an irritated snort.  
  
“And where in the hell do you think _you’re_ going?!” he blurted in dark amusement. “You’re not going to throw this soiree and bow out before the guests arrive. Oh, no,” the Count drawled as Dietrich turned on a heel to face him, his countenance wearing the slightest unsettling turn of lips.  
  
“I’d advise you to quit while you’re ahead, Kris,” he countered softly, to which the Marquis chuckled lightly and closed the distance between them. A foot taller than the younger man, Krstovar peered down at him. Dietrich had come into his city– presumably under order of Contra Mundi– to use Macedonia’s resources for a substantial kickback, which he had yet to see. But the deal was getting worse all the time and now the Holy See was likely en route with a large _told you so_ in tow.  
  
Krstovar grabbed Dietrich’s upper arm in a vice-like grip and green eyes slit dangerously. “I’m not afraid of _you_ , little boy,” he growled and forcefully shepherded Dietrich with him to the telephone. He shouted into the receiver, authorising the person on the other end to detain anyone attempting to leave Skopje: “Including Herr von Lohengrin’s entourage,” he added and hung up. Cocking his head, Krstovar picked up the receiver once more and released his hold on Dietrich, offering the elegantly designed item to him. “I invite you to contact your superiours in Berlin. I’m sure they would enjoy a party as much as the next man,” he prodded with a leer.


	2. A Terminological Inexactitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ennui breeds duplicity and Dietrich finds it is truly a double-edged sword  
> Prompt: “It is double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.”

Once again, Abel found himself on a train, bound for Skopje; this time with Father Havel at his side. They sat in the dining car, picking through both intel on the investigation they’d be carrying out in the morning and the items on their plates. “You say that the Marquisate wasn’t receptive to our warnings?” Vaclav asked, employing the side of his fork to cut into the slice of gravy-laden meat on his plate. Abel shrugged as he chewed his mouthful then washed it down with a healthy sip of wine.  
  
“In a nutshell, no,” he replied. “I can’t say I blame him but I am sorry that, for all intents and purposes, we seem to be right on this one.” The raven-haired agent blotted his lips with a napkin then laid it in his lap.  
  
“Can we be sure it was the Rosenkreuz Orden, though? We’ve received no data to confirm that as of yet,” he related and speared a red potato. “I think it best to go in without assumption and let the findings speak for themselves.” Vaclav bit into the vegetable and Abel lowered his spoon.  
  
“You’re right, of course,” he conceded with a quiet sigh. “Regardless, I know Count Krstovar will be none too happy to see the Vatican in his city once more.” Abel scooped some peas onto his spoon and ate them. “We didn’t part on the most stellar of terms,” he confessed and the other priest lowered his hand to cut the potato in half.  
  
“Though the incident occurred within his domain, any site thus anointed by His Holiness is sacrosanct and thereby under the Vatican’s dispensation. I’m sure His Excellency is aware of that and–“ Sister Kate’s voice crackled over Vaclav’s earpiece as she relayed additional information.  
  
 _Major Zaro has informed us on behalf of the Count that a small unit will rendezvous with you at the Transportation Complex– 0730 hours.._  
  
“Thank you, Kate. Havel, out.” He ended the connection and put down his utensils for a moment to recount the communiqué, then resumed eating. Abel chewed on his thumbnail in thought, parsing out everything discussed in the briefing. They had little to go on. Vague descriptions of the suspects, trace residue of a concoction the AX had never seen before and no true motive.  
  
“We’re flying blind, Vaclav,” Abel opined and took a sip of his wine. “It could have been anybody,” he tacked on and tipped the glass up again to drain it. Vaclav smiled softly at his companion, knowing how personal the blonde had taken it all over the past few weeks. He caught the startling blue that raised from the lip of Abel’s glass.  
  
“ ‘For we walk by faith, not by sight’,” he cited and Abel returned the gesture with a nod, though the scripture did little to lighten his heart. Vaclav was aptly named by Caterina and Abel quietly swallowed. _Know Faith_ – some days, he’d only wished he could.  
Abel set down his glass and tore a piece of bread in half to dip one end in herbed oil. He slid it against the lip of the dish then bit into the slice, talking around the bite.  
  
“The report said their eyewitness claimed the culprits moved like Methuselah,”  
  
“Doesn’t mean they were, Abel,” Vaclav rejoined and pushed his plate away from him. He prepared a cup of coffee and stirred in a couple of sugar cubes, the soft sound of the spoon hitting the interiour of the cup seeming to pair with the click of the train gliding along its track. The raven laid the spoon aside and blew across the surface of the drink before taking a tentative sip. “For now, all we can do in this train– miles from our destination– is throw out theories. Tiresome and futile, my friend,” he said and nodded at the server as he cleared away the soiled dinnerware.  
  
Abel loosed a sheepish chuckle and finished his bread then sat back for the server. “Please forgive me, Vaclav. I’m afraid this one has me a tad bit more involved.” Father Havel smiled warmly as he set the cup in its saucer.  
  
“We’ll be there in the morning and you can get into the thick of things. But until then, relax,” Vaclav suggested and poured his fellow priest a cup of coffee, nudging the sugar bowl toward him with a grin.  
  
  
  
“Hang up the phone, Niš,” Dietrich warned and Krstovar ignored him, pivoting to press the appropriate numbers.  
  
“Country code 49, I believe,” the Marquis drawled then let out a growl as the receiver fell from his hand onto the carpet. His fist curled with the pain that shot up his arm and Dietrich’s angelic face wore a bright smile as he waved a hand, sending Krstovar to a knee. The young man’s strings burrowed into the Count’s skin and with the movement of Dietrich’s fingers, Krstovar grunted between clenched teeth. Green eyes levelled onto the teen and Dietrich took a step closer to his captive, clicking his tongue.  
  
“Hang up the phone,” he repeated softly and the Marquis’ hand lifted the receiver off the floor and placed it back in the cradle. “Good boy,” Dietrich cooed. He beckoned the man with the curl of a finger and Krstovar got to his feet, the synapses in his brain firing at the Puppetmaster’s will.  
Dietrich led him through the parlour and into the room just outside his private office. He heard the sounds of struggle behind him and cast the noble a look over his shoulder, the pretty smile rising for his benefit. “It’s better if you don’t fight it, Excellency,” he taught and with a broad sweep of his arm, sent the Marquis across the room.  
Krstovar’s back slammed into the wall and with a pained groan, he slid to his knees. Dietrich walked over to him and grinned down at the hot glare that met him. He cocked his head and crossed hands in front. “Don’t look at me like that. I _did_ advise you to quit while you were ahead, my Lord. You only have yourself to blame.”  
  
A growl bubbled in Krstovar’s throat and he tried to stand, but to no avail. “Release me at once, you bastard!” he barked and the light sound of Dietrich’s chuckle sent waves of nausea through the Count’s body.  
  
“We tried it your way, didn’t we,” the teen purred and the strings wended their way further into Krstovar’s body, attaching themselves to sensitive nerve endings. “You’re mine now,” Dietrich stated jovially, though his eyes held no amusement in their depths.  
He shifted his hands and Krstovar stood up, his brow furrowed in discomfort as he was moved about. His muscles protested with each step as Dietrich frogmarched him toward a side table. “Now then Niš, we’re gonna play a little game, you and I,” he instructed, running a hand down the Marquis’ back. His fingertips departed the velvet beneath them and Dietrich wrapped an arm around Krstovar’s waist from behind him. “Call whoever you spoke with earlier and tell them to give my men clearance to leave.”  
  
The Count stood still and Dietrich’s hand splayed along Krstovar’s stomach in the parody of a warm embrase, bringing the man’s body against his own. “ _Now-ish_ , Kris,” he breathed and another wave of pain rocketed down Krstovar’s midsection. He sucked in a laboured breath then reached for the phone and dialed. Dietrich let up on his mental hold and the Marquis spoke evenly into the receiver, giving the soldier on the line the order as Dietrich directed. The younger man smiled at his back and the arm around Krstovar tightened in a half-hug. “Very good, indeed,” he praised and let his arm slip from the Marquis’ waist. “Next, ring up that pompous Major of yours and tell him to meet with Weiß. He’ll have instructions for him to follow with regard to the Memorial House– or what’s left of it.”  
  
Krstovar cleared the line and made his call, relaying what Dietrich wanted then hung up to the teen’s pleased hum. “You’re good at this game, beautiful!” he lauded and waved toward one of the sofas. “Have a seat,”  
The Marquis sat down and Dietrich ensconsed himself in the opposite corner of the furniture, considerably easing his control of him. Krstovar stared straight ahead, his back stiff and Dietrich quietly snickered. “Are you ready for the next part, Your Lordship?” he asked and the Count looked askance at him.  
  
“The Sancta Sedes is on their way, Dietrich,” he said. As the pain subsided, he got bolder. “What do you think will happen to you and your creatures when you’re found?” Dietrich remained silent and the tip of his tongue toyed with the edge of a tooth. “Do you think your Orden will save you, or will they allow you to be taken to the Vatican and chucked in a cell to rot for the remainder of your miserable life?” Krstovar grinned sharply and Dietrich arched a brow at him, his tongue finishing at the corner of his mouth.  
  
“I’ll be long gone by the time your dogs arrive, Niš, and as for the Orden– that’ll be our little secret.” Dietrich retorted, tapping the pad of a finger on the side of his nose. He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of reisling then returned to the sofa. He smiled sweetly at Krstovar as he swirled the wine, encouraging it to breathe.  
  
“All I need to do is tell them exactly who ordered up this goddamn farce and that would end your exodus, wouldn’t it?” Krstovar surmised with a confident leer and Dietrich shook his head at the simple threat.  
  
“Hmm, you’re certainly plucky this evening,” Dietrich commented and idly examined the fingernails on his right hand. “Do you intend to open up your beloved city to the Vatican? If you tell them the Big Bad Wolf has sent your homegrown saint back to God, you might as well fluff the extra pillow on your bed, my Lord, because Nightroad’s gonna be bunking with you for the rest of _your_ miserable life.” Dietrich coyly chewed his lip. “You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Krstovar exhaled through his nose but remained quiet. “I thought not. That’s why our game is played by my rules.”  
  
“And those are?” the Marquis asked flatly. Dietrich took a sip of the excellent vintage and balanced the foot of the glass on his crossed thigh, letting silence prevail as he pondered. He set the glass down on the lowtable and scooted next to Krstovar.  
  
“You did such a good acting job when Father Nightroad was here that I’m inclined to give you another shot at it,” the redhead began. He faced the Count, his bent knee resting on the cushion between them and his lower leg pressed against the man’s outer thigh. Dietrich drew a fingertip along Krstovar’s leg then retraced its trail. “You’ll tell those holy fools that you have no idea who bombed the Memorial House. Allow them to do their investigation with full cooperation and I’ll take care of the rest,” he explained and Krstovar’s brows furrowed with the unsolicited touch, remaining so as he listened to the teen’s plan.  
  
“Is that so?” the raven retorted with a snort and nudged Dietrich’s hand off his leg. “And why in the hell should I just let you take your toys and go home, von Lohengrin?” Dietrich softly picked up Krstovar’s hand and peered down at his palm. His finger traced a few of the lines then circled the middle and glanced up at him.  
  
“Because, Excellency. They are my rules and if you don’t comply to the letter, you will become personally acquainted with the monument that bears your name,” he cautioned with a warm grin then raised the Marquis’ hand to his mouth and wrapped his lips around the index finger. Green eyes narrowed and Krstovar could still feel the freak’s strings, though they were more like a dull hum than the strangling scream from earlier. When he tried to wrench his wrist away from Dietrich, the corner of the boy’s mouth curled into a smirk– his hold like an iron shackle.  
  
Dietrich slowly released Krstovar’s finger and licked his lower lip, tasting the faint tang of the Marquis’ skin. “The thought of you nailed up there is both disgusting and delectable… a delicious martyr.” Dietrich’s eyes hooded as he placed a kiss on the tip of the man’s finger. “Who knows, perhaps _you’ll_ get canonised and a memorial house built for you in the next millennium.” Dietrich affected a sigh. “The Church can be so slow when it comes to sanctification.”  
  
Krstovar gently rolled his wrist within the loosening hold and he wore a pleasing moue as he raised that hand to softly caress Dietrich’s cool cheek. “I understand,” he murmured and fingertips then flossed through the younger man’s hair. The Marquis moistened the seam of his lips and they parted as he neared the blush set before him.  
Dietrich’s eyes feathered shut and a quiet sound of pleasure whispered between them. He could smell the scent of wine on the raven’s breath. “I’ll leave the rest to you, Dietrich. No doubt,” Krstovar breathed and his fingertips glided down Dietrich’s midline to rest on his thigh.  
  
The Puppetmaster’s eyes slowly opened to gaze at the Marquis. Krstovar was every bit as beautiful as Gyula but not nearly as submissive, which suited Dietrich– he liked a challenge. “And when the Vatican arrive, I’ve never heard of the Rosenkreuz Orden, nor of their darling Marionettenspieler,” Krstovar spoke against Dietrich’s lips and caramel eyes fell shut again. Krstovar’s hand dropped from the nape of the teen’s neck. “Now,” he purred malignantly, quickly rearing back. His fist connected sharply with Dietrich’s cheek, knocking him unceremoniously to the floor. “Get out of my country, you fucking bitch!”  
  
Dietrich palpated his jaw as an intricately carved clock tolled eleven and all he could do was loose an ominous chuckle. He spit blood-tainted saliva onto the floor and Krstovar glanced down at the leaving then put hard eyes back on his guest, maintaining his seat on the sofa.  
“Helluva right you have, Niš,” he relented good-naturedly and got to his feet, a contusion beginning to bloom on his pale skin. Dietrich’s hands clenched at his sides and he peered down his nose at the Marquis. “Let’s see how you like mine, hmm?”  
  
He drew back to send forth his strings when the phone rang. Dietrich watched Krstovar pick up the receiver. The short conversation was mostly one-sided and the raven hung up then tipped his chin to smirk at Dietrich. “Apparently your car has arrived, Your Highness,” he informed the younger man and propped bent arms along the back of the sofa, barely contained amusement threatening his handsome countenance.  
  
Dietrich’s arms fell to his sides and he fit Krstovar with an unpleasant smile. “You were getting boring, anyway,” he berated as the Count lit another cigarette. A thin ribbon of smoke sensually curled from Krstovar’s lips that still held onto the smirk they were all too glad to keep.  
  
“Because I wouldn’t screw you? Charming,” he countered and took another pull off his cigarette. “My vainglorious little cherub. Contrary to what you believe, I am not beguiled by the thought of using your body. My standards extend a bit loftier than a teenaged miscreant.” Dietrich gaped for a moment before he composed himself.  
  
“Go fuck yourself– Your Lordship,” he retaliated, stiffly jerking the lapels of his jacket and the Marquis snickered around his smoke.  
  
“Cute.” Krstovar waved Dietrich toward the door and after the boy turned on an incensed heel then left the room, the Count let out a drawn exhale. “Good job he gets so damned miffed,” he murmured to himself and rolled the end of his heater along the side of the ashtray.  
  
After several minutes, Krstovar placed another call. As the ringtone buzzed, he took a draw off his cigarette and when the other end connected, a plume of smoke curled from his lips. “Your bird has flown. However, he’s made quite a cock-up of everything and I expect due recompense for this little foray into delirium,” Krstovar deeply intoned.  
  
 _Of course. You will receive proper reparations, Your Excellency._  
  
Krstovar felt the remnants of Dietrich’s strings fade and Major Zaro opened the door to his office. The Marquis motioned him over as he resumed the telephone conversation. “I trust you will send a sensible delegate when prepared to enter into treaty? I feel sure our relationship could be most beneficial.”  
  
 _Indeed. I look forward to our meeting._ There was a pause on the line. _You’ve been most helpful, Count Krstovar. I just know Dietrich will be delighted with our lark… the dear boy does so love a good game,_ the sensual voice purred over the line and Krstovar snorted his exhale then put out his smoke and leaned back in the sofa, watching his Major take the seat across from him.  
  
“Hmm, if you want my advice, you’ll put that devil over your knee and beat some manners into him!” the Marquis suggested and a broad smile bloomed on his lips with the reply that met his ear. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said then extended his arm to place the receiver back into its cradle, his fangs catching the light above. Krstovar then addressed his subordinate. “Zaro, I want surveillance on Herr von Lohengrin’s motorcade until they reach the border.”  
  
The Major nodded and poured a glass of wine for his boss then relayed the order via the earcuff he wore. Krstovar leaned forward to take the glass. “Did you meet with this Weiß?” he asked.  
  
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Zaro replied and crossed an ankle over knee. “And with the rain coming down now, any trace evidence is going to be minimal. But I have to ask, why are you covering for that– _kid_?” Krstovar sipped at his wine then lowered the glass with a short grin.  
  
“I’m not covering for him, Major,” he stated and swirled the contents of his glass. “What happened at the Memorial House was unplanned. However, I do not relish the thought of having the Vatican within these borders any longer than necessary.” Krstovar raised the glass again then set it on the table between them. “Did Weiß explain anything to you?” Zaro shrugged.  
  
“No, my Lord. The idiot just grinned inanely and sent his unit into what he called _Theta-zero-stroke-six-eight_.” Krstovar rubbed his chin in thought.  
  
“Yes, a contingency plan is the best solution.” Zaro shook his head.  
  
“One of that nutjob pretty boy’s design,” he surmised and the Marquis cocked a brow.  
  
“If his men have pulled whatever it is it off, it’ll be the most sensible thing that brat has done since he darkened my door, Major.”  
  
  
  
As promised, Abel and Vaclav met the escorts that took them to the scene of the bombing. The sky sat darkened by rain that had fallen since the night prior and Vaclav peered out the window as they rode in the armoured car. “The rain’s going to cause a lot of problems,” he surmised and Abel nodded as he, too, glanced out at the soggy landscape. It really was a shame, all of it. Not only did they have to carry out a full investigation– with reports likely filled out in triplicate– but even the weather was conspiring against Abel getting a single night’s decent sleep.  
  
Breakfast at the train depot had been lacking in certain areas and Abel doubted a cheese roll and coffee in a miserable paper cup was going to do much for his performance. He unwrapped a chocolate bar his partner had given him when he got tired of hearing Abel’s stomach loudly protest its lot. The blonde leaned forward as he tore open the treat. “How far to the site?” he asked then bit the bar in half.  
  
“Six-point-four,” one of the escorts replied and Abel sat back to happily chew the candy. Vaclav watched his friend devour the bar and he shook his head. “I’ll talk to Her Eminence, try to persuade her to see her way clear to giving you a rise, Abel.” A small smile ghosted across his face. “You’re pathetic,” he added, though without malice.  
  
Abel nodded and cracked a half-grin around his mouthful. They rode the rest of the way listening to the communiqué between the soldiers and those at scene. The Count’s men were speaking mostly in code with orders and acknowledgements passed between in their native language.  
The car stopped and the back door was opened to allow the priests to exit. Vaclav scanned what was left of the sacred site, Abel stepping out of the vehicle with a quiet gasp as his eyes took in the destruction.  
“It’s contained, Vaclav,” he murmured, drawing up close to him. Abel paid little attention to the warm rain that fell on them.  
  
The agents stepped over fallen brick and wood, followed by one of the Marquis’ men. Vaclav looked askance at the soldier. “Has your bomb squad reported on their findings as of yet?”  
  
“No, Father. We’ve only received preliminary reports from FC. They’re still here, attempting to gather any further evidence they can manage to get,” he explained then looked up at the sky. “Though the rain is proving to be a hindrance,” the soldier added.  
The trio moved into the gutted atrium of the building and Abel bent to pick up a photo of the memorialised saint. Her wrinkled face beamed back at him from behind the cracked glass and he spared it a quick grin then set the photo on a collection of crumbled stones. Vaclav sidestepped a fallen pillar and several clay roof tiles, extending a hand to aid his balance. He haulted at the door to the small chapel. One rosewood panel lay splintered on the ground and the other hung by a single hinge.  
  
Inside, several of the pews were stacked together like tinder and some were broken in several pieces. Ahead, both priests saw what was left of the altar. Its surface was littered with stained glass from the window of the alcove, like sinistre confetti. “My God,” Abel breathed then addressed the soldier. “To your knowledge, Lieutenant, what sort of explosive could cause such concentrated damage?” he asked and Vaclav’s chin tipped upward to see a large part of the roof missing. It was odd that the surrounding buildings sustained minimal or no damage. The escort nudged a section of pew aside with the toe of his boot. “I don’t know, Sir. My guess is it would have to be compact yet powerful enough to inflict this much damage.” The Lieutenant shrugged and Vaclav peered into the main exhibit area from a side door off the chapel. He beckoned his partner.  
  
“This area is mostly intact, Abel,” he declared and the blonde carefully made his way over to him, leaving the soldier in the chapel. They briefly toured the room. Glass cases that housed relics and memorabilia from the saint’s long life had been moved from their stations along the walls but were not damaged. The Lieutenant made his way into the exhibit hall as he finished speaking through the wireless in his ear.  
  
“Fathers, we have arranged for you to speak to the sole survivor, if you would come this way.” he related.  
  
  
A short drive delivered Abel and Vaclav to Cathedral of St. Clement of Ohrid and the small entourage were shown a room off the south transept. The Lieutenant gestured toward a nun that stood as the priests filed in. “This is Sister Gisèle. She was present at the Memorial House the night it was bombed.” He then nodded toward the two other men. “And these are Fathers Abel Nightroad and Vaclav Havel from the Ministry of Holy Affairs,” he announced then met eyes with the priests. “Please take your time. I’ll be at the car.”  
  
Abel smiled at the nun and pulled out a chair to sit. “Were you injured, Sister Gisèle?” he asked and shifted his seat to give Vaclav more room at table. The young nun shook her head and folded hands in her lap.  
  
“No, Father,” she replied in a heavy Franc accent. “I was in the archive room at the time of the blast,” she told him and Vaclav smiled softly at her.  
  
“Sister, perhaps you can tell us how that night progressed for you. What you saw and heard prior to the accident.” Gisèle nodded and Abel walked to a sideboard, poured a glass of water then set it in front of the nun. He resumed his seat and put elbows onto the tabletop.  
  
“I had finished attending the half-six mass at the Memorial House and was on my way to work in the archive room. The people were exiting out the main door and after several minutes, it was all quiet. Our next and final mass of the evening is at half-eight and I wasn’t attending, so I thought I’d be able to get things catalogued for our Autumn exhibit.” Vaclav leaned in at table and licked his lips moist to speak.  
  
“The reports state the bombing occurred around 2100 hours, so right in the middle of that mass.” The nun confirmed his statement and he continued. “Please, tell us what you saw,” he gently urged and Gisèle drew the water glass closer, her slender fingers wrapped loosely around the cool vessel.  
  
“I had to go out to the main exhibit area to take an inventory of the items that would be stored in the archive vault and I saw three cloaked persons quickly moving through the atrium.” The nun chuckled nervously. “But it was far away and my eyes are a bit weak,” she told them and at Abel’s assurances, she resumed. “At first I assumed they were late to mass and I wanted to inform them to enter quietly through the narthex but they had vanished. I assumed I had imagined it all and so I returned to the vault and several moments later was when…“ A single tear wended down Gisèle’s cheek and she pulled a small kerchief from her sleeve to dab at it. “Please forgive me, Fathers. Eighteen parishioners were killed, as was Father Doros– he was a good man.” Abel gave her a soft smile.  
  
“We are sorry for your loss, Sister, and I thank God that you were spared.” Gisèle worried the cloth in her hands and raised watery eyes to the pair of priests.  
  
“How did I survive, you want to ask,” she stated and the corner of her lips turned sadly. “The archive vault is lead-lined, to safeguard the relics against such disasters.” Her voice wavered. “I didn’t think it would ever have to protect against something like this,” she sighed.  
  
Vaclav laid his arms along those of his chair, a single finger tapping quietly against the finial. “Sister Gisèle, were you the one that phoned the police?” he asked and she silently nodded then folded her kerchief and stuffed it back into her sleeve.  
  
“Yes, Father. Once I got out of the Memorial House, I notified them via the call box down the street. They arrived within five minutes,” she explained and the room grew quiet while information was processed. Abel held his chin then dropped his arm as he stood.  
  
“Thank you for your time, Sister. I pray that you can find peace after this tragedy,” he assured her and Vaclav pushed away from table to stand. He approached the nun as she, too, stood up and put a hand to her shoulder.  
  
“If you think of anything else, please contact us– day or night.” Between them, Vaclav forwarded an ecru card with the herald of the Holy See emblazoned at the centre of the small rectangle. “Please remain at the Cathedral in the meantime, Sister Gisèle; where you’ll be safe,” Vaclav told her and released the card as she took it in hand.  
  
The priests turned to leave when Gisèle’s quiet voice broke the silence. “One of the investigators found something in the nave, Fathers,” she informed them and they both turned to look at her. “I don’t know what it was, but they have of course taken it as evidence.” Abel acknowledged her.  
  
“Thank you, Sister,” he remarked and they said their goodbyes then shut the door behind them. Gisèle sat down and looked at the card the raven haired priest gave her, turning it around between her fingers. She then propped the heel of her shoe on the edge of the table and leaned back with a dark grin.  
  
“Fabulous,” she purred in a decidedly masculine voice and Kaspar von Neumann pushed a length of veil off his shoulder and hailed the Vatican’s escort via his earcuff. “Over to you, Lieutenant,” he gleefully declared then pulled the handkerchief out of his sleeve again and playfully dabbed beneath an eye. “It was just tragic,” he drew, feigning sadness then tossed the cloth into the air with a smile and a pleased chuckle.  
  
  
In the car, Abel talked with the Lieutenant who had taken a seat in the back with them. “Atros, Sister Gisèle said the first investigators on-scene at the Memorial House had found something in the nave of the chapel. Do you know what that was?” he asked and Atros leaned forward, his arms propped on his thighs.  
  
“Yes, Father,” he replied and Vaclav arched a brow but remained silent. “Just inside the nave and nearer to the altar one of them had found two black lotus. Rather odd as the flowers aren’t indigenous to this area of the world.” Atros sucked in his lips for a beat. “Matter of fact, they are only grown in the Empire,” he added and Abel barely shook his head. Vaclav piped up.  
  
“Immaterial,” he declared. “The Empire exports many rare blooms all over the known world.”  
  
“Black lotus were not on the roster for the chapel’s daily sprays, Father,” Atros confirmed and folded his hanging hands together. Abel fooled with a gum wrapper and raised his eyes to the soldier.  
  
“I highly doubt the Empire had a hand in this, Lieutenant,” he opined and blindly folded one end of the foil to the corner of the other. “There is no gain to be had from attacking a church. Such an act would lead to a provocation of war and I can assure you that neither side wants that.”  
  
“There was something else, Fathers,” Atros interjected and both priests levelled a gaze on the soldier. “And perhaps you can help us with this.” The man let out a breathy chuckle. “I know my Franc is a little rusty, but does _Fleur du Mal_ mean anything to you? Aside from the obvious translation,” he asked and Abel’s eyes widened.  
  
“What did you say?”  
  
Atros shifted in his seat and his eyes darted to the side quickly then locked onto the blue opposite. “It’s just that we had intercepted a communiqué shortly before you arrived that mentioned the Memorial House and this Fleur du Mal. The origins of it are unknown and it was in code, but,”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Vaclav exclaimed and the Lieutenant held up both hands.  
  
“Our taps were working on it when you arrived and SPEK will not release classified information until the principals have been debriefed.” Abel crushed his gum wrapper and let out a sigh.  
  
“Does the Marquis know about this?” he asked and Atros informed that he’d been debriefed within the hour. “When will the formal reports be released with regard to this incident?” Abel added and Vaclav tipped his chin but remained silent.  
  
“The report will be available first thing in the morning, Father. We are ruling–“  
  
“In light of this information, Lieutenant, I think it best to reserve any final ruling until we know who we’re dealing with, here,” Vaclav cut in and his brows lightly furrowed. “Have you never heard of the Fleur du Mal?” Atros blinked and let his lips part slightly.  
  
“Should I have?” he asked and Abel snorted then pocketed the gum wrapper.  
  
“They are a small-time terrorist organisation and primarily operate in the more western domains. Which would explain why,” he related and chewed his gum for a moment. Vaclav interjected.  
  
“They’re hired guns, usually,” he taught, placing an emphasis on the end of his statement. Vaclav leaned back in the bench seat, intent on Atros. “How long have you been with the force?” Atros unfolded his hands but maintained his slouch.  
  
“Six months, Father. I was transferred from Mitrovicë, in northern Macedonia,” he told them and Abel pushed the gum to the side of his mouth with his tongue.  
  
“Please take us to the Kale,” he commanded and Atros raised a hand behind him to rap on the glass that separated them from the front of the car. The panel slid open and he relayed the order then faced the pair again.  
  
“We’ll arrive in ten minutes,” the Lieutenant said and they all took the remainder of the ride in silence.  
  
  
Krstovar rose as Abel and Vaclav were ushered through the door to his office and he motioned to the plush chairs at his mahogany desk. “Welcome back, Father Nightroad,” he intoned as he took a seat, the other two men following. “And who is this gentleman?” Krstovar’s gaze leveled onto the raven-haired priest. Abel smiled and crossed his legs, his fingers weaving together on his lap.  
  
“Father Vaclav Havel, Your Lordship,” Abel replied and Vaclav tipped his chin in greeting.  
  
“A pleasure to meet you, Excellency,” he said, quickly assessing the Count. A smile ghosted across Krstovar’s face and he steepled his fingers above his waist.  
  
“Strong name,” he remarked and the tips of his fingers drummed once in their hold. “Your accent… Břeclav?” he guessed and the priest let a pleased grin bloom.  
  
“Close, Your Lordship. Brno,” he affirmed and Abel smiled between the both of them, the gesture fading to a simple turn of the lips as the Count’s dark eyes settled on him.  
  
“What can I assist you with, Fathers? As you know, I’m in the midst of dealing with an unprovoked attack and my time is precious to me,” he stated and Abel sat up straighter.  
  
“We thank you for contacting the Vatican on this most urgent matter, Excellency. We take any assault on sacrosanct entities very seriously, indeed!” Krstovar held up his hand, interrupting Abel’s comment.  
  
“Which is precisely the only reason you are here, Father Nightroad; Father Havel,” he countered. There was something about the newcomer that picked at the back of Krstovar’s brain, but he let it lie for the moment. “Were this a strictly internal matter, I would have thanked the Holy See to keep out of it. However…“ It was Vaclav’s turn to interrupt.  
  
“Have you ever had trouble with the Fleur du Mal, Your Grace?” he asked and the Marquis smoothly selected a cigarette from a box on his desk then lit it, leaving the lid open in silent offering. The smoke curled from his lips as he answered.  
  
“I’ve had a dealing or two with them in the past. Extortion and money laundering and hardly worth my time. A couple of the operatives turned evidence under _gentle_ persuasion and that was the end of it.” Krstovar cocked a brow as he ashed his cigarette. “Are you suggesting they were responsible for the bombing?” Vaclav crossed an ankle over knee and sucked on his bottom lip before answering.  
  
“Your intel does seem to point in that general direction, Count Krstovar,” he replied. “On the ride over, your Lieutenant informed us that SPEK had intercepted a coded communiqué that mentioned both they and the Memorial House.” Vaclav rested his chin in the cup of his hand. “Has FC completed their end of things?” Krstovar rolled the end of his heater along the bottom of the ashtray then took another drag.  
  
“We will have the final report in the morning, Father,” he told him then extinguished his smoke. “The Vatican will, of course, receive a data cube.” Abel smiled beatifically at the Marquis.  
  
“Thank you. That will help us tie up loose ends and will also aid in the petition for funds to construct a new site for Saint Teresa.”  
  
Krstovar nodded and closed the lid of his cigarette box. “Yes. She is beloved of many of the people in Skopje and indeed the whole of Macedonia. Any aid that is forthcoming from the Sancta Sedes in that aspect would be appreciated.” The Count loosed a polite smile. “It will show that we are not to be ruled by terror,” he added. His gaze once again fell on Vaclav and the smile faded to a dim curl of the corner of his mouth. “Your name seems familiar to me, Father,” Krstovar intoned and he leaned forward at the desk to prop his chin on the pad of his thumb. “How long have you been with the AX?”  
  
Vaclav crossed his hands at his waist. “Since her inception, Excellency. Prior to that, I worked with the Inquisitorial Department,” he revealed and Krstovar’s eyes slit as his lips thinned.  
  
“I see,” he remarked flatly and Abel uncrossed his legs, raising hands to ward off the darkness he saw passing over the Marquis’ face.  
  
“Father Havel is a founding member of the AX, Count Krstovar. His loyalties are to His Holiness, the Duchess of Milan and to the Ministry of Holy Affairs,” he reasoned and Vaclav held up a hand to the side, silencing his fellow agent.  
  
“I left the ID due to _differences of opinion_ , to put it diplomatically,” he explained and the Marquis snorted then walked over to an antique cabinet. He selected three glasses and decanted two fingers of a clear liquour into each. Krstovar let the reticence prevail until he placed a glass in front of the two priests then resumed his seat behind the desk.  
  
“Do forgive me, Father Havel. I have quite a _definite_ opinion on the Inquisitorial Department,” he affirmed. The Count observed Abel looking at the glass with platinum brows softly furrowed and chuckled. “It’s called _Kajsijevaca rakija_ , Father Nightroad,” he said and a light grin crept on Krstovar’s lips when Abel sniffed the contents. “Smells worse than it tastes, I assure you.” Vaclav raised his glass as the Marquis offered a toast in his own tongue and both he and Krstovar downed the liquid. They both watched Abel do the same then cough as the alcohol burned down his esophagus.  
  
“Oh…oh my!” Abel cleared his throat and exhaled when he felt the burn dissipate for a pleasant apricot finish. “Delicious, Excellency,” he declared and Krstovar nodded.  
  
“My home is yours, Fathers,” he offered and licked his lips of the residual liquour. “The report will be finalised first thing in the morning.” The Count lifted the desk phone to his ear and pushed a single button, informing the person on the other end that there would be two additional for dinner. “Prepare two rooms in the east wing as well,” he ordered then hung up. Vaclav and Abel both thanked him for his hospitality and Krstovar offered a cultured grin. “You will return to the Vatican tomorrow and I would be most grateful if the Duchess of Milan kept her holy hands to herself in future.” The priests bowed their heads respectfully but said nothing and came to their feet as Krstovar rose. “In the meantime, I believe dinner is served.”


	3. A Tactical Misrepresentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ennui breeds duplicity and Dietrich finds it is truly a double-edged sword  
> Prompt: “It is double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.”

Dietrich’s motorcade passed through downtown Berlin. The sun had already set on the old capital, painting the cityscape in burnt orange and red hues. The lamplights flickered on and shoppes closed their doors for the night.  
He lounged in the limousine, sipping brandy from a snifter and pleased his plans had gone relatively well, excepting one irritating matter. Dietrich desperately wanted to even the score between himself and the handsome yet overly pompous Marquis of Macedonia, but there was plenty of time to plot the bastard’s downfall. A dark smile germinated on Dietrich’s pretty face– in the fullness of time, he would see the Terran on his knees.  
  
A small intercom that sat below the divider between the front and back of the limo crackled. “Five kilometres, Sir,” the voice informed and Dietrich lowered the glass from his lips.  
  
“Very good, Commander,” he replied and downed the rest of his brandy.  
  
The truck that transported the Autojägers was first to travel the secluded drive to the seat of the Rosenkreuz Orden, followed by Dietrich’s limo and his escort just behind. The truck turned at the main roundabout to disappear behind the large building and the two cars came to a stop at the front. A uniformed guard opened the back seat of the limo, saluting as Dietrich exited; he and others of the redhead’s entourage were welcomed in the foyer by a series of servants.  
  
Dietrich had taken a light supper alone in his rooms then sat down to his computer to run a series of reports Cain and Isaak would require. His trip to Wien would be touted a success, according to the data cube, and they need never know of his _miscalculation_. As the reports were running, Dietrich reviewed the data on his new Neurochip– the one that he’d installed in his Hunters. The teen wore a troubled brow and he slipped off his jacket then rolled up his sleeves, watching the lines of coded data scroll by.  
  
It was odd that only three of the chips malfunctioned out of the fifty that were installed. His calculations were never wrong and Dietrich didn’t like to lose! Several taps of bare fingers resonated on the sensitive keys and he pulled up the technical readouts of the Neurochip. The three had been extracted and were in his briefcase but the other forty-seven were functioning perfectly, though currently offline. “Fucking pompous dick and his legion of incompetents,” Dietrich hissed to himself and drew his leather briefcase across the desk.  
  
He rifled in the bag for the case that contained the faulty chips then opened the small box and blindly set his briefcase on the floor. Dietrich selected one of the tiny squares and slid it into a reader to the left of the keyboard. He keyed in a command that split the screen; the technical readout on the left and the faulty chip’s readout on the right. While the data converged, Dietrich poured himself a glass of wine and flipped on the portable stereo on the credenza behind him.  
  
Beethoven flowed in soft, minor-key notes from the speakers and Dietrich grumbled to himself as he popped the disc out and replaced it with something that had a more driving– yet no less ominous– beat. He sipped at the wine as he scanned the comparative analysis and thin brows furrowed. Caramel eyes leapt from one side of the screen to the other and he set down his glass. “What the fuck?” he subvocally complained and drummed fingers along the smooth surface of the desk. “Impossible,” Dietrich added and pulled the chip out of the reader, quickly replacing it with the second and– after a few moments– the third. Each one had checked out and Dietrich polished off his wine, the glass noisily slammed onto the desk. “They’re flawless,” he whispered.  
  
Dietrich now paced before a large bank of windows that overlooked the darkened courtyard gardens of headquarters, his hands folded behind his back. His boots were muffled by an area rug and he stopped to peer out at the softly-lit fountain in the centre. The redhead knotted his brow as he laboured over the paradox this development presented. Prior to arriving in Berlin, Dietrich had ordered that the three Hunters responsible for the bombing be delivered to his lab and he would work out why they’d acted contrary to instruction. He crossed the carpet and took an old-fashioned lift down into the bowels of the building– his curiosity not permitting him to wait until morning.  
  
Two pots of coffee and a half-dozen pastries later, Dietrich sat at his rolling stand in the lab, a hand holding up his head. One of the three Autojägers lay face-up on a morgue table, the skin of its head peeled back and the portion of its skull that had covered the frontal lobes of the brain now sat in a stainless basin on the creature’s chest. For several hours, Dietrich had poked, prodded and notated findings; or lack thereof. Everything appeared to be in order. The graft sections were secure, the plug-in for the Neurochip was hard-wired to the proper receptors.  
  
Dietrich’s eyes grew heavy and they slowly blinked over his trance-like stare at the corpse. Long lashes closed then levered open and Dietrich raised his head as he noticed something different about the creature’s mouth.  
The Puppetmaster slid off his stool and paced over to the draped Hunter and peered down at the mouth. It was sewn shut but with an uncharacteristic gap between the lips. Dietrich donned a pair of nitrile gloves and selected a pair of metzenbaum scissors off the mayo stand to his left. He snipped the waxed ligature at the corner of the being’s mouth, worked the suture loose and manipulated the jaw open.  
  
A piece of plastic had been sutured to the Hunter’s tongue and Dietrich freed the small square and placed it on the stand with his scissors. Carefully, he peeled the thin plastic apart and retrieved a folded bit of parchment paper. Shucking his gloves onto the stand, Dietrich opened the paper and his gaze bore down on the typewritten message:  
  
 _When looking for the answer, do you wish you had eyes in the back of your head?_  
  
Dietrich frowned, the paper crumpling in his clenched fist. Someone was playing games with him and he could just bet who. “Bastard!” he growled and pitched the paper ball onto his rolling stand. “Should have killed him when I had the chance.” The image of the Marquis of Macedonia danced in Dietrich’s head and he tore the plastic apron off his body then wadded it up and slung it into a nearby biohazard container as he stomped out of the lab.  
  
On the way back to his rooms, Dietrich crossed the main foyer of the converted mansion. Through the stained glass that flanked the ebony double-entry doors, the rays of the late afternoon sun cast the marble floor into kaleidoscopes of muted colour. A door sat open to what was called the butler’s office and inside, Dietrich spied the mostly reticent Guderian– Isaak’s freak werewolf servant. The redhead smirked to himself and crossed the floor, his dossier held stiffly behind his back as he put on his best saccharine smile. “Good afternoon, Reißzahn,” Dietrich purred, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. He knew the beast rather loathed the moniker but Guderian looked up from the task of polishing his riding boots to offer a contrived simper to the silly boy-child  
  
“Guten tag, Herr von Lohengrin,” he efficiently replied, his golden eyes intent on the Puppetmaster– warm in hue yet icy in expression. He put down the stained rag and wiped his hands with a fresh cloth. “How may I be of assistance?” Guderian offered and slipped on the boots that were polished to a mirror brilliancy. For a moment, Dietrich thought about getting the pup to shine his boots, but there wasn’t time for such sport.  
  
“Have you seen Isaak lately? I have a few reports that need his signature.” The smile remained on Dietrich’s lips but inside, he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to explain anything to Panzermagier’s pet. The werewolf looked up at Dietrich through a thick strand of blonde hair, which he tucked behind a slightly pointed ear when the last boot was donned. Guderian stood to his full height and peered down at his master’s pet.  
  
“Herr von Kämpfer is away on business with Mein Herr,” he informed the other then put a booted foot to the bench to straighten the pleats of his trousers where they tucked beneath the shank. Dietrich frowned then quickly hung his smile back on as the blonde continued to fuss over his appearance.  
Guderian slipped on his Orden jacket and fastened the buttons as he spoke. “I am on my way to collect them from the Flughafen,” he said and the younger man cocked his head, still holding the file behind him.  
  
“Where did they go?” Dietrich asked, watching Guderian’s fingers secure each silvertone button on the jacket. When no answer was forthcoming, he let his displeasure blast from his nose. “What were they doing, Reißzahn?” Dietrich asked and leaned in slightly, the tip of his tongue touching a tooth. “Anything fun and exciting?” The werewolf adjusted his gun belt and tilted his chin up to match an arching brow.  
  
“I highly doubt it, Herr von Lohengrin,” he replied dryly and grabbed his chauffeur’s cap from the small table to his left. Guderian held the cap in the crook of his arm and took a pace closer to Dietrich, an entirely too toothy grin manifesting. “However, I suppose you can raise those queries at this evening’s staff meeting,” he purred and patted Dietrich’s cheek as he passed the boy with a throaty chuckle.  
  
“Check your familiar tone with me, flea bag,” Dietrich growled at the man’s retreating back and the corner of his mouth curled lightly when the blonde peered at him over his shoulder.  
  
“My apologies, Sir.” Guderian held Dietrich’s incensed gaze for a few beats but turned his head before the smirk broke free. “Scheißkerl,” he murmured to himself as he shook his head then put on the cap and walked outside; the well-tuned hum of Isaak’s limousine heard a few minutes later.  
Dietrich looked up at the massive grandfather clock in the foyer– he would be able to get a couple hours of sleep before the evening meeting.  
  
  
Automated dolls, supplied by Melchior, put the finishing touches on the large conference table. Dark panels of wood covered the walls of the room, reflecting the light from the massive chandelier that hung above the table and footsteps were muted by the thick carpeting that covered the floor. The dolls moved efficiently, placing clear carafes of wine and glasses on trays every few feet for ease of reach and at Isaak’s seat, a chrystal ashtray was set next to a table lighter. At the head of the table, a runner of black velvet– emblazoned with the Orden crest– was draped over the polished wood surface. The high-ranking members began to file into the room amid a wave of hushed chattering, each accepting a proffered snifter of brandy.

  
Dietrich lifted a glass off a silver tray as he entered the room and acknowledged several of his cohorts with a brief nod.  
“Well, Dietrich. Glad you’re back with us,” a smooth voice praised and the teen turned to face its owner. Balthasar raised his glass in a toast, his lips twisting in the parody of a smile and Dietrich returned the gesture.  
  
“Balthasar. A pleasure, as always,” he replied, though not meaning a word of it. It was well-known that many of the Orden were loyal to Cain only– their comradery with each other a matter for hot debate on the best of days. Balthasar sipped at his drink then lowered the glass.  
  
“I hear Wien is lovely this time of year,” he said, the fingers of his free hand toying with the base of the snifter. “Did you have an opportunity to view any of her architectural wonders? The Schönbrunn Palace, in particular, is simply amazing.” Dietrich softly agitated the contents of his glass and he smiled sweetly at the other.  
  
“Sadly, no. Mine was an exercise in occupation,” he explained and the older redhead lightly smiled.  
  
“You should do yourself a favour and pepper your occupation with pleasure on occasion, Marionettenspieler.” Balthasar’s lips curled. “Curious you didn’t this time,” he opined and tipped his chin as he excused himself. Dietrich snorted into his snifter then set it down at his place to the right of Isaak’s chair.  
  
A low-tone bell rang, bringing the room to order and each person stood at attention as Cain walked through the doors, crisply attired in his Orden uniform and followed by Isaak and another man. The assembly called out their hail of him and they watched them make their way around the table. Dietrich’s eyes widened for a split second as he saw who brought up the rear of their top-level trio. The Marquis of Macedonia took the place at Cain’s left and the council moved as one, turning to face Contra Mundi as he took his seat.  
  
Cain sat at the head of the table and raised a hand, signaling the others to likewise sit. Isaak pushed his hair to the side as he sat down and beneath the table, he laid a hand on Dietrich’s thigh with a tight smile.  
“Guten abend, Liebling,” he whispered, the smile fading into a knowing smirk. Dietrich’s eyes left a similar countenance just across from him and he turned a soft simper to his mentor, returning the greeting.  
The bell pealed again and Cain neatly folded his hands before him on the table as Isaak poured a glass of wine; a warm nod given to the magician when it was set at his place. Helga’s eyes narrowed but she, too, poured herself a glass and fitted a sensual smile on painted lips.  
  
“Welcome back, Mein Herr,” she chanced with her glass raised. “I trust your trip was a success.” She passed a fleeting turn of lips to the man at Cain’s right. “Isaak,” Helga tacked on belatedly and he set the carafe back on its tray, grey eyes holding hers for a moment.  
  
“Most prosperous, Madam,” Isaak replied then sat back and Cain laid his arms along those of his plush chair and addressed the company.  
  
“Before we begin, We would like to inform the council of the fruits of Our recent sojourn.” Soft blue eyes lit on the man at his left and Cain gestured to him. “We are pleased to present His Excellency, Count Krstovar Niš – Marquis of Macedonia.” Krstovar briefly bowed his head in respect but maintained his seat and Dietrich hurriedly raised his snifter to thinned lips. “His Excellency has agreed to enter into talks with Us, which I am sure all of you agree will prove to be mutually favourable.” Hushed yet agreeable chatter broke out around the table and Isaak took the opportunity to introduce the present ministry.  
  
“Your Lordship– to your left– Helga von Vogelweide.” The Marquis nodded at the woman, which she gladly returned, with interest. A few names more were called, then: “Radu Barvon,” Isaak presented and Krstovar rubbed his smooth chin.  
  
“Hmm…Baron Luxor, no?” he remarked and Isaak licked his lips with a calm smile for the Count.  
  
“Indeed yes.” Krstovar dropped his hand and crossed his legs beneath the table, a brow arched as he looked at Cain.  
  
“Do you represent the interests of the Empire as well, Mein Herr?” he asked and Radu looked into his empty brandy snifter then quietly signalled a servant with a snap of his gloved fingers. Cain turned his attention to the man at his own left.  
  
“In the fullness of time We sincerely hope to, Count Niš,” he assured with a flash of pristine white teeth and Krstovar nodded his approval then turned green eyes back onto Isaak as he resumed his introductions. The Marquis propped his elbow on the chair arm when the mage came to the young man at his right and he again rested his chin in the cup of his hand.  
  
“Dietrich von Lohengrin,” Isaak forwarded and Dietrich bowed his head.  
  
“A pleasure to meet you, Your Excellency,” he greeted in a dulcet tone and the Count shifted his chin to prop it on the back of his hand.  
  
“Believe me, the pleasure is entirely _mine_ , young man,” Krstovar intoned deeply then changed tracks. “Is this your protégé, Isaak?” Krstovar asked, his gaze pressing into Dietrich from above a light grin. The mage tipped his chin and answered in the affirmative. The Marquis accepted a glass of wine from the woman to his left with a gracious smile but kept his eyes on the teen. “I’m sure he’s astute and complaisant,” he said with the faintest tip of his glass toward the redhead.  
Dietrich kept a closed smile on his face, meanwhile drawing the tip of his tongue along the clenched backs of his teeth.  
  
“You’re too kind, Your Lordship,” Dietrich stated and he could feel the eyes of the others watching this tennis match with more than passing interest; he could practically hear the gears turning in their heads and sense the points of razor-sharp fangs peeking out from behind lips in unabashed amusement. Normally, the teen basked in the spotlight but something was off this evening. It was as if there was some colossal joke he’d not been let in on and it was pissing him off. However, Dietrich maintained his engaging simper and bright eyes.  
  
Krstovar sipped at his glass and loosed a breathy chuckle, his gaze shifting onto Isaak. “And such reverent bearing– a credit to your tutelage, Herr von Kämpfer.” Isaak knew a backhanded insult when he heard one but he supposed he essentially owned the velvet-gloved slander, nonetheless.  
  
“You flatter me,” Isaak responded then took the moment of silence to light a cigarillo and Cain took the same opportunity to bring the meeting back to order.  
  
  
  
Vaclav took a seat at the right of Caterina’s desk, while Abel sat himself in front of it. Both priests were clearly exhausted from the trip back. The Cardinal looked down at the reports both men submitted then put the papers to the side and retrieved the accompanying data cube from its protective case. She pressed a button on her desk to reveal the reader and set the cube onto its opalescent surface. The cube was absorbed into the small rectangle and above the surface, a holograph materialised to show footage of the ruined Memorial House in Skopje.  
  
“At approximately twenty-one hundred hours, unknown assailants entered _NU Spomen kuk´a na MaJka Tereza_ and placed several kilos of plastic explosive in the chapel and surrounding atria,” the narrator related and the footage altered to show the named areas of the House. Caterina intently watched the report as it went on to explain the damage and the data cube concluded then was ejected from the reader. She took the cube off of it and placed it back into its case without words then sat back as she turned the information over in her head.  
  
“As I outlined in my report, Your Eminence, the attack has all the hallmarks of the Fleur du Mal,” Abel explained and Vaclav leaned forward to meet Caterina’s troubled gaze.  
  
“I’ve never known them to move so far East, my Lady. However, we interviewed an eyewitness to the attack and she has confirmed what you’ve heard here,” he forwarded then gestured to the papers on the desk. “Sister Gisèle’s sworn statement is included in our reports.”  
Caterina tapped her lips with the pad of a gloved finger then slid the statement out from under the other documents. She scanned it briefly before letting it return to the desktop.  
  
“PE4,” she murmured and the fingers of her left hand tapped out a staccato beat along the finial of the chair arm. “An Albion variant of C4.” Caterina raised her chin with a troubled smile, her gaze going from Vaclav to Abel and she propped elbows on the desk with a sigh. “Has anyone come forward to claim responsibility as of yet?” Caterina asked and both priests shook their heads.  
  
“Not really Fleur du Mal’s style, Your Eminence,” Abel replied softly, the tips of his fingers idly toying with a silver button on his cassock. The Cardinal nodded and looked at the other priest.  
  
“Vaclav?” she murmured and he briefly bowed his chin in agreement.  
  
“I feel there’s something more to all of this than what we see, my Lady. However, we can only acquiesce to the facts as they’re presented,” he opined and folded his hands in his lap. “To act otherwise could invite discord, as I’m sure you’re aware.” Caterina nodded again and Abel shifted in his seat.  
  
“I don’t like it, but I have to agree,” he reluctantly concurred and a finger now traced the heel of his boot. “There is nothing to suggest any other theory and the Marquis is satisfied with the investigation both his government and the Vatican have concluded.” A smile ghosted over the Duchess of Milan’s face and she gathered up the reports into a single dossier, tapping the edge of the folder crisply against the desktop and fitted both men with the iron gaze she was famous for.  
  
“Then I insist that you consider this case closed, gentlemen. We will regard this matter as an internal one with respect to the Marquisate of Macedonia.” Caterina handed the folder to Vaclav then steepled her fingers, hanging her shoulders. “I will contact Count Krstovar and inform him that funds will be made available for the reconstruction of the Memorial House,” she stated and pulled a single document out of a drawer, the nib of her pen scritching on the parchment as she spoke. “At His Excellency’s pleasure, we will send workers to that effect.” Abel’s lips twisted in a half-grin and he took a deep breath.  
  
“Your Eminence… about that,” he began and looked over at Vaclav for assistance and when the older priest simply cocked a brow though remained silent, Abel let out a nervous titter. “The Marquis specifically requested that– “  
  
“Oh Abel, tell her what he _really_ said, for heaven’s sake!” Vaclav interjected and Abel scratched his head with a sheepish smile directed toward his superiour.  
  
“He, uh… The Marquis asked that, in future, Her Eminence keep her holy hands to herself,” he quoted and felt his cheeks warm. Caterina blinked then her lips gave way for a warm yet truncated chuckle, which she quickly corrected by clearing her throat.  
  
“I see. Well, if His Excellency wishes the additional manpower, he may have it and I’ll leave it at that,” she said then signed her name and title to the bottom of the paper. Caterina handed it to Vaclav. “Please see that this is delivered to Accounts, my friend.”  
  
  
  
The meeting concluded, Cain watched his subordinates file out of the conference room and Dietrich stayed in his chair as Isaak hadn’t yet stood to leave. The blonde came to his feet and Isaak followed suit and Dietrich took the opportunity to edge closer to the door. With a hand on his heart, he bowed to the trio. “Good evening, Mein Herr. If it pleases you, I’ll drop by your office within the hour to file my report,” he suggested and three sets of eyes lit on the redhead.  
  
“One moment, Dietrich,” Cain smoothly said, adjusting his thigh-length jacket with a deceptively warm smile. An ice blue gaze caught his second in command and Isaak glanced at his protégé.  
  
“Mein Herr wishes you to attend us presently, my dear,” he intoned deeply and crooked his finger, beckoning the teen.  
  
“Of course,” Dietrich relented and followed the unholy trio down the marble corridor. Just ahead, he watched Krstovar fall in behind Isaak and frowned at the man’s back. He didn’t have time to be puzzled over the whys and wherefores: it was chrystal clear their association with the Marquis was a little older than it appeared and if the bastard had told them…  
  
Cain dismissed the automated attendants at his doors and Isaak moved to his side to usher the Crusnik inside. He held the door for the other two then shut it behind Dietrich and Krstovar looked around. The office was bright and airy– not what he expected from such a being. The floor-to-ceiling windows were open to the night breezes and their curtains danced like sylphs from their thin iron rods. Along the hardwood floor, a deep red area rug divided the room from the desk area and inviting, plush sofas and chairs flanked a large fireplace that stood cold. Two carved figures held up the mantelpiece and above it a faded painting of a solemn man sat in a gilded frame. “Please, sit,” Cain offered with a gracious sweep of his hand toward the furniture.  
  
Cain took one of the chairs that faced the sofa where Dietrich and Isaak sat and Krstovar claimed the other chair next to him. The Crusnik sent a smile to the Marquis and elegantly crossed his legs. “We pray you found the meeting not too tedious, Your Excellency,” he said and Isaak maintained a respectable distance from Dietrich, lighting up a cigarillo.  
  
“Most interesting, Mein Herr,” Krstovar answered. “It seems that your subordinates have a clear direction in which to take the organisation; with your hand to guide them, of course.” Cain loosed a brief, breathy chuckle and he let his gaze momentarily ghost over Isaak. The mage ashed his smoke in a tray to his left.  
  
“As we’ve discussed, the Orden has a concise direction. We each work toward that goal in concord with Mein Herr’s command.” He tilted his head to look at the young man next to him. “Do we not, Dietrich?” Isaak asked and took a draw off his cigarillo. The thin ribbon of smoke curled above his raven head and Dietrich nodded.  
  
“Mein Herr’s edicts are absolute,” he declared confidently. Cain licked the seam of his lips and addressed his guest.  
  
“I count myself fortunate to have such allegiant disciples; truly,” he lauded then turned his attention to the youngest. “Now then. Let us discuss your report, Dietrich.” The teen maintained his calm veneer but his brain raced to formulate the lies his lips would busy themselves with in short order. Isaak turned his head to gently smile at him.  
  
“Would you care for some water, Dietrich?” Isaak asked and the Marquis propped his chin with his thumb, his index finger gliding along his lower lip as he quietly regarded the performance. As far as he was concerned, being given the opportunity to watch the little shit squirm was worth a bit more than the tidy cheque Cain had cut him a day ago.  
  
“Thank you, no,” Dietrich replied and confidently folded his legs, an ankle resting on knee. “Mein Herr, my report is in my office,” he told the man and when Cain simply cocked a brow, the teen offered a conciliatory grin. “However, in the interest of time, I can give a synopsis.” When the company remained silent, Dietrich took it as let to continue.  
“My main interest in Wien is primarily her chemical industry and as she has strong ties with the Marquisate of Hungaria– not only geographically– I feel it advantageous to further look into a future site for the outfitting and development of our Autojägers.” Krstovar momentarily folded his hands in his lap and cracked his crossed ankle.  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Herr von Lohengrin. What are Autojägers?” he asked with a polite simper and Isaak took another draw off his cigarillo then piped in after he exhaled.  
  
“Do forgive my rudeness, Excellency. Would you care for a smoke?”  
  
“If you’d be so kind, thank you.” Isaak opened his silver case as he stood and allowed Krstovar to select one then lit it for him. He took his seat as the Marquis puffed the end alight and let the smoke rest on his palate then exhaled with a smile. “Excellent blend. Turkish?” he asked and Cain quietly observed not only the pleasant exchange but the way Dietrich’s crossed leg softly bounced in what he ascribed to frustration. He was certain the boy knew he was being played and it was proving to be entertaining to watch him try to smooth-talk his way clear of the infraction Isaak had informed him about a few days prior.  
  
“They are reanimated vampire corpses that serve as the Orden’s foot soldiers!” Dietrich blurted out and a caustic sneer ghosted his lips. “Perhaps you’d like a demonstration, Your Lordship.” The room grew deathly quiet and Isaak casually put out his smoke, his free hand reaching across the cushion to capture Dietrich’s left in a crushing grip. The teen’s jaw clenched shut and Krstovar paused his cigarillo on the way to his lips. Cain steepled his fingers just above his waist but said nothing and Isaak let out an airy chuckle with a cursory tip of his chin.  
  
“My apologies, Marquis.” He held Dietrich’s hand to the cushion as he begged Krstovar’s pardon. “He is a very willful boy,” Isaak ground out, his jaw relaxing with the next breath. “But he means well. Don’t you, childe.” Grey eyes finally rolled over to the teen and Dietrich nodded.  
  
“Yes, Meister,” he replied subvocally and sucked in a breath when Isaak released his hand. Krstovar again raised the cigarillo to his lips and inhaled the sweet smoke, his gaze resting on the redhead.  
  
“Please carry on, Dietrich,” Cain intoned smoothly, seemingly indifferent to the outburst and Dietrich folded his hands over his knee, ignoring the pain in his left. He cleared his throat and put focus on the Crusnik.  
  
“I submit that the advantage to Wien is that transport of the raw materials necessary to our ends would be facilitated by the use of the Danube, en route to István,” he explained boldly. “And as Mein Herr has several in mind to take up the mantle left by the erstwhile Count Gyula Kádár, it seems a logical choice.”  
  
Cain caught Isaak’s eye and gestured toward the sideboard with an airy wave. The mage nodded and rose to play bartender as the boy dug his own grave. It was an exercise in control to keep up the appearance of ignorance and the suspense was killing him but he, surely like Cain and Krstovar, hoped it would last. Dietrich wore the bloom of transgression well but he was never so beautiful as when he was broken.  
  
“Is this true, Mein Herr?” Krstovar asked and ashed his cigarillo in a tray on the small table between them. Ice blue eyes shone in his direction, above a pleasant smile.  
  
“We believe the Marquisate should continue under Methuselah rule, yes, with as little involvement in Terran affairs as possible.” Cain paused. “Though a malleable Terran could easily govern as his _conscious_ dictates,” he opined and the Count nodded then thanked Isaak as he lifted a glass of wine from the tray he carried. Isaak set a glass of water in front of Dietrich then removed the tray back to the sideboard and took his own seat. The teen rolled his eyes at the water and cracked the knuckles of his left hand, resuming his piece.  
  
“Germanicus has historically been the main trading partner of Austria and now that they’ve been absorbed into the greater Reich– again– she still maintains economic dependence on Germanicus. However, with her main energy supply being hydropower, it would be cost-effective to locate a factory within Wien, Mein Herr.”  
Cain’s hands remained steepled neatly as he processed what Dietrich related. Superficially, the Terran made sense and he told him so.  
  
“What you said makes sense. However, merely quoting the _Anschluss Österreich_ page from an educational data cube verbatim isn’t what We’re looking for, little one,” Cain remarked and the cool gaze crept into an equally arctic grin that rapidly departed for a warmer countenance. Dietrich could feel the ice travel up his spine but he somehow held onto a sweet smile, though his foot stopped bobbing entirely when Contra Mundi sipped at his wine and subtly licked his lips. “Since you seem so keen on educating your betters, then perhaps you can enlighten Us further, Marionettenspieler, as to why you weren’t in Wien.”  
  
Dietrich remained taciturn and he lifted the glass of water off the coffeetable. Though the liquid was cool, it burned in his stomach and he could feel his guts churning. He quickly relented that it was not only Cain’s distinct pleasure to close the venomous jaws on this trap but that the other two had an all-too joyous hand in slamming it shut. Krstovar extinguished his cigarillo and again rubbed his chin as he contemplated the youngest among them. He could feel the disquietude coming off Dietrich in waves and the tip of his tongue lightly touched a retracted fang.  
  
Isaak pivoted in his comfortable seat to bask in the aura Dietrich was emitting and he cocked his head at him. “Dietrich,” he purred darkly, resting the base of his wineglass on a crossed thigh. His free hand tipped the teen’s chin up so their eyes met. “I suggest you make the explanation you are about to give _phenomenally good_ ,” Isaak advised sagely then dropped his hand and brought the delicate flute to his lips.  
  
Dietrich did his best to ignore the smirking Count and he kept his eyes on Cain. He sat up straight and scooted closer to the corner of the sofa. It was three against one and he didn’t like the odds. “Mein Herr, I informed Isaak that I would be going to Wien, yes. If you remember, I had come in to speak to both Yourself and he about my plans but I got the brush-off.” Dietrich knew he was inching precariously close to sounding like child who didn’t get his way. “I wanted to prove to You that I could negotiate a deal that was beneficial to the Orden, without a chaperone,” he insisted with a quick glance at his mentor.  
  
“I beg your pardon,” Isaak drawled incredulously, his eyes narrowed and Cain held up a hand to silence him. Dietrich sighed and leaned over, resting his elbows on his thighs, fingers blindly picking at his nails as he addressed the Crusnik once more.  
  
“I developed plans for a new armour to outfit our Autojägers– titanium. Lightweight, durable and Macedonia is one of the few countries, apart from the Empire, that is rich in it,” he explained. “I didn’t mean any harm.” Several disbelieving noises came from separate directions of the room and Krstovar frowned at Dietrich.  
  
“Didn’t mean any harm? Young man, you came into my country with your demands– like some kind of juvenile delinquent– pretending to represent the interests of your superiours.” His index finger tapped against the arm of his chair. “Your little toys blew up a landmark that had existed for a millennia and I’m supposed to believe you meant no harm?”  
  
“That wasn’t my fault!” Dietrich countered. The Marquis scoffed as he ran a hand through his hair then let fingers curl around the arm finial of the chair.  
  
“I’m quite shocked you were able to squeeze your massive ego through the door at the Kale, in retrospect.” Dietrich’s demeanour shifted at the insult and a cherubim grin danced on the devil’s face.  
  
“You were paid for the inconvenience, Your Excellency. I made sure of that.” He looked across the floor at Cain. “Mein Herr. I checked the Neurochips from the deactivated Hunters. They’re faultless,” the teen pled and Isaak swirled the remaining wine in his glass then finished it off with a pleased turn of his lips. Krstovar’s eyes darkened.  
  
“Logic follows then that your _things_ took it upon themselves to grow a brain and act independently.” The Marquis smirked. “Pull the other one, von Lohengrin.” Cain sipped at his wine as he watched the command performance. “Our arrangement collapsed when you decided to screw around with shit that is obviously beyond your scope!” Caramel eyes flashed deviously as Dietrich tapped the centre of his lips with the tip of a finger.  
  
“I believe the deal went sour when I refused to let you fuck me, Niš ,” he goaded and Isaak’s tongue glided over his upper teeth, beneath closed lips.  
  
“How dare you, boy!” the Count growled, his hands nearly cracking the wooden arms of his seat. From the opposite corner of the sofa, a throaty laugh grew from the lip of Isaak’s wineglass. He lowered the empty vessel and placed it on the coffeetable. Krstovar’s infuriated frown melted as both his and Cain’s attention lit on Isaak. Dietrich, too, glanced over at his mentor, his jaw cocked with his irritation. Grey eyes first looked at Cain then at the Count before resting on Dietrich.  
  
“ ‘Saint abroad, and a devil at home’– John Bunyan,” Isaak quoted with a leer and propped his arm over the back of the sofa. “Perhaps we can try a modicum of candor, Liebling? A drop?” he prodded and Isaak met the green gaze across from the teen with a smile.  
  
“Enough,” Cain calmly interjected and he silently exhaled before addressing Dietrich. “Due to your lackadaisical misuse of Orden resources, I am at a loss as to what to do with you, childe,” Cain remarked and his hands loosened to lay on the arms of his chair.  
For once, Dietrich wisely sat silent and Isaak moved closer to him. He ran a deceptively soothing hand through the boy’s hair, a fingertip tracing the sharp angle of his jaw as it departed.  
  
“With respect, Mein Herr, the greater offense is to His Excellency,” he opined and put eyes to the Count. “And in order to express our mutual good-faith on the eve of such monumental negotiations, I propose we yield to the Marquis of Macedonia with regard to any corrective measures.” Krstovar’s brow shot up and he surveyed the condemned with the faintest smirk riding on his face.  
  
The Crusnik pivoted to set his empty glass on the table and the sound of his uniform rustled in the interim quiet that prevailed while the party waited for his answer. Cain briefly sucked on the inside of his lip, pondering the proposition voiced by his second-in-command. Dietrich’s jaw was clenched shut and he defiantly met Krstovar’s eyes, though the stare was broken when Cain gave his reply.  
  
“Do you accept, Your Excellency?” he asked and the Marquis pondered the overture. To have a direct decision in the brat’s comeuppance was more than he might have hoped for but he could appreciate the intended olive branch the gesture represented. Krstovar cocked his head to look at Cain.  
  
“You’re too generous, Mein Herr,” he purred and drew his crossed leg up to rest its ankle on the opposite knee, steepling his fingers at waist level as he ruminated. All eyes were now on the Marquis and he took a silent breath, his countenance even. “In my country, treason is punishable by death, gentlemen,” he schooled, noting how Dietrich seemingly discovered a nondescript point in the room to focus on. “However, I also find merit in safeguarding Herr von Lohengrin from the ease of oblivion.” Krstovar’s index fingers tapped together in an even beat then stilled. “I am inclined to consider the offense of _Lèse majesté_ ,” he judged and Isaak sat back in his seat to light another cigarillo.  
  
Dietrich passed his mentor a puzzled brow and Isaak briefly chuckled. “From the Latin _laesa maiestas_ , my dear– ‘injured majesty’. “ he explained and rested his arm along the sofa’s, his smoke perched between its fingers. Cain’s pale eyes narrowed in something akin to mirth.  
  
“Are you familiar with the Mileniumski Krst?” The Count asked both Isaak and Cain.  
  
“Yes, we saw it on the approach to Aerodrom Skopje,” the magician nodded then took a casual draw off his cigarillo and Krstovar let the tip of his tongue run along the keen edge of an incisor.  
  
“With your kind indulgence Mein Herr, Isaak; allow me to tell you a tale,” he remarked and Dietrich again found his defiance as a wicked sneer ghosted across his face. The teen elegantly crossed his legs and perched his chin in the cup of a palm then shot the Marquis a look of unabashed ennui.  
Krstovar cleared his throat, blatantly ignoring Dietrich as he spoke. “During Herr von Lohengrin’s delightful tarriance, we had many opportunities to engage in debate and one of his solid, watertight threats was that if I didn’t capitulate with a particularly brassy edict, I was to become, and I quote: ‘acquainted personally with the monument that bears your name’; end quote,” he shared and Isaak glanced over at his protégé.  
  
“Is that a fact,” he stated more than asked and clicked his tongue at the moue of apathy the teen wore. He ashed his smoke and watched Cain straighten a cuff on his jacket.  
  
“Tell Us, Dietrich. Have you ever seen a crucifixion?” The Crusnik asked, idly watching a piece of lint fall from his fingers before looking up at him.  
  
“Only…no, Mein Herr,” he replied, lifting his chin from his hand. He felt a prickling chill race around his body. Contra Mundi smiled at him, though his icy eyes remained unmoved.  
  
“It’s a most cruel and disgusting punishment,” he affirmed. Krstovar pursed his lips and nodded matter-of-factly when Dietrich happened to glance his way, which the redhead quickly corrected. “The length of time required to reach death could range from a matter of hours to a number of days, depending,” Cain added as he pulled the fingers of his glove then stripped his hand of the garment, followed by its mate. He tossed them to the table and leaned back into his chair with a soft sigh. “Terrans are so abjectly delicate– pity.”  
  
Isaak put out his smoke with a light chuckle and licked his lips of remnant flavour the stick had imparted. His left hand released the catch on his holster. “Such a bother when we could end this right now, ja?” Grey eyes lit on Cain, then Krstovar and Isaak reached across his waist to pull the weapon out, his elbow locked as he leveled the Mauser Zig-Zag hinge frame on Dietrich.  
  
“Isaak!” Dietrich cried and the mage pulled the trigger, the hollow sound of the hammer hitting the empty chamber not heard by the teen. He instinctively flinched, curling inward in anticipation of the bullet entry, his eyes screwing shut as he waited for the pain that never came. Understated laughter erupted around him and Dietrich opened his eyes to see his mentor smirking as he re-holstered the gun.  
  
“What the _hell_!?” the redhead fumed, his heart still racing. The Marquis kept his own counsel and Cain shook his head.  
  
“Really, Isaak,” he chided impassively. “We’d rather not have Our office tainted with the by-product of his shock.” Krstovar’s eyes narrowed as he snorted, which Cain disregarded. He rose from his chair and the three likewise stood. “Make the necessary preparations,” he commanded and Isaak put a hand to his heart, bowing, then took Dietrich by the arm and exited the office.  



	4. And Thine Eye Shall Not Pity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ennui breeds duplicity and Dietrich finds it is truly a double-edged sword  
> Prompt: “It is double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.”

Dietrich toyed with the food on his plate as he sat across a small table from his mentor. Cain had given him until the following evening before his punishment would commence, knowing the teen would simply baste in his own solicitude. Isaak cut into the rare steak on his plate and elegantly laid the knife along the edge. After swallowing the morsel, he met the distracted face. “Are you not hungry, mein Schatz?” he asked and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Grey eyes momentarily fell to the boy’s plate. “You haven’t touched your food,” he added and Dietrich looked up. Thin fingers randomly hit the contents and he defiantly peered at the raven.  
  
“There, I’ve touched it,” he declared icily and employed the napkin on his lap to wipe his hands. He threw it on the tabletop and glared at Isaak. “Happy now?” The mage relocated his serviette to a thigh and reclaimed his knife to cut another slice of meat.  
  
“Your table manners are deplorable, Dietrich,” he commented and ate his forkfull. “ ‘A man's manners are a mirror in which he shows his portrait.’– von Goethe,” Isaak quoted with a ripe smile, one which the redhead returned sharply.  
  
“ ‘Fuck you, Sir.’– von Lohengrin,” he countered petulantly and took up his wineglass as he leaned back in the padded dining chair and crossed his legs. Dietrich didn’t care. He was about to be strung up for something that wasn’t his fault, in his opinion. So what was one more carelessly-flung barb between friends? He wasn’t in the mood to play house. Isaak speared a few steamed haricots on the tines of his fork and dredged them lightly through butter sauce.  
  
“Enchanting,” he mildly replied and ate then laid the silverware across his plate and politely wiped his mouth. “But it’s just as well,” Isaak leered. “Wouldn’t want you soiling yourself in front of God and everybody, now would we?” A toothy smile rose from the ashes and Dietrich spied his mentor’s fangs from across the table. He said nothing and sipped at his wine while Isaak topped the plate before him with his napkin and nudged it to the side. He lit a cigarillo and ignored the automated attendant that cleared his and Dietrich’s places, speaking around the perfumed exhale. “Though, I imagine there might be an advantage to an enema this evening.” Long lashes lowered darkly from behind the gossamer veil of smoke. “Unless you’d prefer to shit in public– it’s all the same to me.”  
  
Dietrich scowled over his raised glass and he lowered it to lick his lips. “Awesome,” he deadpanned. “I’m sure you’re just the one to give it to me.” The Terran rolled his eyes and set down the glass then took a bright, foil-wrapped square from the small plate to the left of it. He unwrapped the chocolat mint and popped it in his mouth, savouring the contrasting flavours on his tongue. Isaak refilled his own glass with a breathy chuckle.  
  
“Thank you, no. I think I’ve dealt with enough of your shit over the last day, Beautiful,” he affirmed, raising the flute in a toast then took a sip from its gold rim. Dietrich took another candy and peeled the foil from its embossed shape and slipped it between his lips. Caramel eyes waxed pensive as his tongue rolled the sweet around in his mouth.  
  
“I didn’t order that bombing, Isaak,” he murmured then bit the candy in half, chewing one of them. “My Neurochips were functioning within normal parametres.” Isaak retrieved his cigarillo from the ashtray and puffed the end alight as he listened, then exhaled an elegant ribbon of blue-grey smoke from his sensual lips. “And in one Hunter’s mouth…”  
  
“Did you not read the note, Dietrich?”  
  
“How did you know?” the teen asked, his brows knotting and Isaak smiled around the black cigarillo.  
  
“Who do you think put it there, silly boy?” the mage answered and tapped an ash into the glass tray. “The answer was spelled out for you, in black and white.” Isaak clicked his tongue. “ _Wunderkind_ , indeed,” he scoffed and Dietrich felt his mouth gape as he put two and two together. The raven rolled the end of his cigarillo against the wall of the cut-glass tray and flicked the end with his thumbnail. “Close your mouth please, Dietrich Engel. We are not a fish,” he admonished and Dietrich displayed a deeper frown at the use of the middle name the man had saddled him with years ago; Isaak’s attempt at a poor joke, in the teen’s opinion.  
  
“Then you– You complete _bastard_!” Dietrich growled, his mouth tasting sour, despite the smooth chocolat that veiled his palate. His eyes narrowed dangerously and he slammed clenched fists on the tabletop, the wine in both glasses sloshing with the vibration. “And I’m gonna be fucking nailed up like some goddamned mark because that’s what gets you off?!” he shouted and Isaak calmly puffed on his smoke, observing his protégé’s meltdown. “Does Cain know about this?!” he growled and the mage exhaled his lungfull.  
  
“Yes and I suggest you watch your mouth,” Isaak warned evenly and Dietrich quickly got to his feet, his hands falling to the side to slap along his legs.  
  
“What the hell do you care what I say?” He let a smirk ride on his face. “You truly _are_ His ant!” he bit back and without warning, Isaak was out of his chair and Dietrich’s head snapped to the side with the harsh slap that crossed his cheek. He could taste blood on his tongue and before he could lick his lips, the magician’s hand was at the back of his neck, acquainting him with the dark wood wall.  
  
“You just bought yourself another day, Klugscheißer,” Isaak hissed into Dietrich’s ear, his fingers curling into the tender flesh of the boy’s throat. “Care for another? Keep talking,” he goaded and the redhead sucked in a breath through bloody spittle.  
Isaak peered down into Dietrich’s profile with an ominous leer. “You were this close to losing us a potentially valuable ally in the Marquisate of Macedonia,” he explained. “You’re damned lucky the Vatican didn’t screw things up and that His Excellency is still interested in treaty talks or infinitude in the company of the seven Princes of Hell would be nothing, when compared to the alternative at Mein Herr’s hands.”  
  
Dietrich visibly relaxed against the wall and he peered over his shoulder at his mentor. “Why?” he breathed and Isaak’s hand left its post to brush thick strands of cinnamon hair away from the boy’s flushed face.  
  
“Didn’t think about the cerebral cortex did you, Marionettenspieler?” He sighed as a fingertip traced the shell of Dietrich’s ear. “Its manipulation lends one very susceptible to suggestion; even a corpse. You know that,” he taught, his fingertip arcing to glide down the nape of the teen’s neck. “ _Eyes in the back of your head_? Cliché, but it works, ja?”  
Dietrich shivered with the contact, the touch feeling like barbed wire down his spine. He inwardly cursed both himself and his superiours for his own inattention. He should have known Isaak couldn’t leave well enough alone when it came to him.  
  
“You didn’t answer my question,” Dietrich murmured and fingers continued to brush his hair away from his neck, each tickle of skin on skin filling him with dread. He then felt Isaak’s breath on the bared flesh as he replied.  
  
“Why?” Isaak repeated and licked his lips, eyes trained on the delectable curve of his pet’s nape. “Because, my dear: ‘It is double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.’– Jean de la Fontaine,” he whispered and pressed a soft kiss just at the base of Dietrich’s neck.  
  
  
The night prior, Dietrich had laid alone in Isaak’s bed while he was likely hobnobbing with Cain and the Macedonian prick. Predictably, sleep had only teased him with short spells and his stomach twisted in on itself in the awake periods, the cramps coming in indeterminate waves to couple with the tormenting scent of clove and Isaak that enveloped the feather pillows Dietrich had tried to beat into submission.  
  
Night had given way to morning and morning flew headlong into mid-afternoon before the redhead relinquished the useless comfort of the bed. When bare feet touched the floor, a sharp cramp hit him and Dietrich raced to the ensuite to empty his bowels. His mind went to the mint chocolats he’d eaten at supper and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fucker,” he quietly hissed.  
  
The dial of the grandfather clock in Isaak’s office seemed to mock Dietrich every time he glanced at its gilded face and the weights within the glass cupboard below it hung as if in effigy. To the teen, the minute hand was anxious to meet its full circuit and when the soft click of the internal mechanism was heard, Dietrich mentally hummed along with the eerie, chiming rendition of a measure of _Danse Macabre_. Afterwards, the deep tolling of the hour sounded and he likened it to a death knell.  
One hour left. Sixty minutes that would slip away with each hollow tick of the ornate hand.  
  
The mage toiled away at his desk, finalising a report and paid him no mind as Dietrich padded over to the leather sofa, scratching his head. He hadn’t bothered with a shower, seeing no point to it, and wore the same shirt and trousers he’d worn the day before. His shirt was open and untucked and Dietrich rolled up the sleeves then pulled on a pair of socks. He set his boots in front of him and Isaak looked up from his work with a fleeting smirk. “I shouldn’t bother,” he advised and Dietrich met his eyes as one foot slid into the boot.  
  
“At least let me die with my boots on.” He pulled the other on then slouched back into the seat and Isaak scoffed amusedly.  
  
“Do you even know what that means?” The raven shook his head and dropped his gaze to the report in front of him. “Idiot,” he added and brought another sheet of paper to the blotter, the nib of his pen continuing on. Dietrich frowned but remained silent as he looked down at his boots. He propped his right ankle on the opposite knee to rub at a scuff with the pad of his thumb then employed his shirttail to buff the spot. Grey eyes clandestinely observed the boy and Isaak holstered his pen, sitting back in the desk chair with a sigh. “Makes about as much sense as wearing a bonnet to a beheading,” he said to himself. “If you’re going to dress, then get that suit on.”  
  
Dietrich looked over at his Orden jacket and the tie that laid on top of it but the clothing remained draped on a nearby chair. He looked up at Isaak through a thick lock of hair. His eyes travelled down the man’s body and he let a slight smile turn the corners of his mouth. Dietrich got to his feet and Isaak watched his slow approach. He knew what was on the boy’s mind and a thin, black brow lifted as the open shirt revealed pale, smooth strips of flesh with each step he took. Dietrich rounded the desk and he saw his mentor wore a thigh-length jacket instead of his usual. The Iron Cross sat proudly over the left pocket, and the Orden badges denoting his rank were affixed at each collar tip. “I see you’ve tarted yourself up,” the teen remarked and he slid between Isaak and the desk, his finger lifting the medal on the mage’s chest, only to let it fall back into place.  
  
Isaak spared the decoration a glance then looked up at Dietrich with a smirk. “Well, it _is_ an important day, Liebling,” he explained and pulled his cigarillo case from a pocket in the jacket. Dietrich pivoted to retrieve the table lighter from Isaak’s desk and flicked the flint wheel. He presented the flame and the magician puffed on the black stick then sat back to take a draw. “I have talks to attend and you have _your_ part to play as well.” The younger man set the lighter down and rested his backside against the lip of the desk as he held the steel grey gaze.  
  
“I don’t want to die, Meister,” Dietrich softly said then chewed on his bottom lip, his lashes nearly fanning his cheeks. Isaak exhaled the scented smoke, his tongue gliding along the seam of his lower lip.  
  
“We can’t always do what we want to do, right?” he countered lowly and the youth bowed his head for a few moments then peered through his hair at the raven. Slender fingers gently pulled the cigarillo from Isaak’s lips and Dietrich pressed it into the ashtray on the desk then smoothly straddled his lap. His hands drifted through soft, ebony hair to cup the back of Isaak’s head as he spoke quite close to smoke-scented lips.  
  
“I’ll do anything you want me to,” Dietrich whispered then feathered a kiss on them, the tip of his tongue teasing at the slightly parted seam. He sealed their lips together and when Isaak responded, a faint moan broke on the boy’s throat, the kiss languid and unhurried. When Dietrich’s hands blindly sought out the buttons of his jacket, Isaak’s hand curled around his shoulder to push him back, breaking the liplock. Dilated eyes peered at him from behind cinnamon bangs with unspoken question.  
  
“I know.” Isaak was finally able to agree but was cut short when the teen rocked forward in his lap and again claimed his lips. A hand in his hair pulled Dietrich’s head back and grey eyes narrowed, pairing with a snorted laugh. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, childe,” he told him, the grip on the boy’s hair tightening. “You want amnesty, go try to seduce the Marquis– _again_ ,” Isaak suggested and Dietrich shook Isaak’s hold, another scowl marring his pretty features that quickly melted. His eyes fell to Isaak’s lap and he smirked.  
  
“His dick was as hard as yours is, when we were alone,” he lied with a satisfied smile.  
  
“Men choose whether or not to control their desires. Self-discipline…you should try it sometime.” Isaak ran the pad of his finger down the middle of Dietrich’s chest. “If you had, you would be free of the unfortunate situation in which you find yourself,” he purred and gave the tip of the redhead’s nose a patronising tap. “Hard dicks notwithstanding, of course.”  
  
Dietrich let out a defeated sigh but his brain quickly diverted to another scheme as evidenced in a split-second curl of a lip. “But would you have them take me away from you, Meister?” He cocked his head then circled one of the silvertone buttons on Isaak’s jacket. The mage lifted Dietrich’s hand close to his lips.  
  
“Should have thought about that while you were busy showing your ass, ja?” he commented and briefly kissed the boy’s fingertip then released his hand. His own went to Dietrich’s shoulder and moved him off his lap. “You can be so selfish.” Isaak’s outstretched arm pushed him to the side then reclaimed the half-smoked cigarillo. He lit it again and drew in a lungfull with a dangerous grin. “However, two-Dinar whores are easy to come by. Rest assured,” he sweetly stabbed as he patted Dietrich’s flank and glanced up at the clock when it began its hourly song.  
A cold sweat dotted the nape of the boy’s neck and he watched Isaak stand. He extinguished the cigarillo and presented his protégé with a keen leer. “Time’s up, little one,” he needlessly announced and Dietrich held his place at the corner of the desk, his hands tightly curled around the edge.  
  
“Please, Isaak!” he pled and the magician tipped his chin to look down on him, raising gloved hands between them to quickly fasten a few buttons on Dietrich’s shirt.  
  
“Courage, Marionettenspieler. It’ll all be over soon,” he murmured and right on time, a knock came to the office door. Two Autojägers entered and took Dietrich by the arms. He struggled in their powerful hold and turned hot eyes onto his mentor.  
  
“What the fuck!” he growled and the raven casually pocketed his cigarillo case then stepped closer to the younger man. He licked the taste of clove oil from his lips and tipped Dietrich’s chin up to meet the fierce glare.  
  
“Little boys who can’t properly take care of their toys lose them,” he professed then nodded to the pair of Hunters and Isaak followed as they escorted Dietrich past the door. His petitions echoed through the corridor that led them to the grande foyer and he even tried digging in his heels when they reached a stained glass entryway.  
  
The doors led to an inner courtyard and two servants opened them simultaneously to allow the party to pass. The sun had dipped behind the huge building, throwing the courtyard into burnt shadows, dispelled every few metres by braziers. The sound of night birds chirping could be heard over the marble fountain that crowned the centre of the grey brick path. On either side, wild roses grew to perfume the air and moonflowers had just begun to open along the archways that flanked the courtyard. Ahead, Dietrich could see the members of the Orden standing at attention on either side of the walkway, looking like some macabre wedding processional and Cain stood before the doors to the mansion’s derelict chapel. To his left, Krstovar watched the struggling boy inch closer to them, his thigh-length traditional vest moving with the warm breeze.  
  
Dietrich began to dig his heels again but thought better of showing anyone any modicum of fear. As he was led to stand before Cain, he felt his stomach twist. Nineteen years on the miserable rock he called home, twelve of them with the harshest pair of sadists he’d ever met and his last hours would be witnessed by a company of backstabbing bitches– and one Gypsy _fotze_.  
He had hoped for a more noble death.  
  
Several members of the Orden sneered amusedly as Dietrich passed and he focused straight ahead, disregarding the murmured commentary that was just loud enough for him to hear. The Hunters haulted before Cain and went to a knee in unison, pulling Dietrich down to do the same. He’d knocked his patella on the brick walk and the joint mildly throbbed. He bowed his head, his view of the ground interrupted by a spit-shined pair of black boots. Isaak took the spot to the left of the chapel doors and crossed his wrists before him as the Crusnik spoke. “Dietrich von Lohengrin, you have defied Us before Our subjects and Our comrade. For this and the offense of _Lèse Majesté_ , We order you crucified.”  
  
The pair of Hunters got to their feet and pulled Dietrich up to stand between them. Hushed whispers filled the courtyard and curious eyes were fixed on the young man then faded into the night as Cain raised his hand to silence them. He addressed the small assembly in fluid Latin, quoting from an ancient Inquisitorial text. “ 'For punishment does not take place primarily and per se for the correction and good of the person punished, but for the public good in order that others may become terrified and weaned away from the evils they would commit'." Cool blue eyes met the groupe. “Mark this night well,” he commanded them then shifted his gaze to Dietrich. “Have you anything to say, Marionettenspieler?” Cain asked evenly and the enclosure further quieted. All eyes were upon Dietrich and he looked at the Crusnik, then to Isaak. His gaze next touched on Krstovar, expecting to see delight on his face. The Marquis stood with a solemn countenance and the teen lowered his chin.  
  
“No, Mein Herr,” he replied quietly. Cain crooked a finger, summoning Isaak to stand at his right as he stepped back from Dietrich and the boy looked up at his mentor through a tangle of hair. Isaak boldly met his eyes for a moment then summoned another Hunter from the shadows of the courtyard. It approached with an oblong box held reverently in its hands and came to a stop behind the accused.  
  
“Commence,” Isaak ordered and the Autojägers that held Dietrich began to strip him. Clothing tore, falling uselessly to the ground and the boy kept his head down as he was bared to the assembly. Another wave of hushed voices broke over the groupe that grew in volume as more of Dietrich’s skin was revealed.  
  
“ _Nice ass, Marionettenspieler!_ ”  
  
“ _Ooh!, Guess it’s a bit chilly out here,_ ” another leered.  
  
“ _Nothing more than you deserve, you little bitch!_ ”  
  
Cain did nothing to rebuke them and when the last piece of clothing was tossed aside he observed Isaak casually lighting a cigarillo. He leaned in slightly. “Are you unmoved, my friend?” he quietly asked and his icy gaze caught the magician’s through a ribbon of smoke.  
  
“ ‘Give them according to their deeds, and according to the wickedness of their endeavors. Give them after the work of their hands; render unto them their desert.’– Psalm twenty-eight, verse four,” he answered candidly and drew on the black stick.  
The Hunters brought Dietrich to the doors of the chapel. Both ebony panels had been permanently closed and within each, bas-relief carvings of the stations of the Cross sat worn by time and the elements. The boy idly let his eyes glide over the carvings before he was moved to face the fountain.  
  
“Stop,” Isaak blurted and when the creatures turned, he lifted his finger, making a single circuit. The soldiers complied and Dietrich was then positioned facing the doors. One of the Autojägers stood behind the youth and held his outstretched wrists to the heavy wood while the other opened the box. It retrieved a single, thin, iron spike and the mallet and a jolt of panic shot through Dietrich. He struggled against the creature that held him, though it was useless– they retained the superiour strength they had while living. The irony was bitter; his own creations had become the instruments of his doom.  
  
“Meister! Please!” he cried, his plea surging into an anguished yell as the first nail was driven into the back of his left hand. It wasn’t difficult to hear the sound of the metal penetrating flesh and the dull blow as the nail drove into the door. Isaak exhaled his smoke, his eyes hooding with each sob that fell from Dietrich’s lips. The other spike was lined up and when it, too, had been struck, black lashes feathered over high cheekbones as a subvocal purr ghosted his throat.  
  
Cain made an indifferent sound then turned to the man at his left. “Would you prefer to not soil your hands with his further punishment, Your Excellency, or do you wish to take your pound of flesh presently?” he asked politely and as Krstovar pondered the invitation, Isaak looked askance at him. He knew the Marquis’ people had been proponents of corporal punishment since antiquity and the night prior, he had let it be understood any implements in his vast collection were at the Count’s disposal.  
  
Krstovar unbuttoned his long vest and slipped it off his shoulders then folded it neatly and handed it off to the woman that stood next to him. Helga gladly accepted it and draped the garment over her arm with a smile. It was her distinct pleasure to witness Dietrich being taken down a peg or three. The brat had gotten beyond uppity with his superiors and the only thing that would have made the present situation better would have been to nail up the Terran’s dangerously handsome, perverted Master as well.  
  
Her violet eyes glided over Krstovar’s tall frame as he answered Contra Mundi. “I will administer it now, Mein Herr,” he stated and adjusted the fitted cuff of his black, loose-sleeve shirt then bent to the side to slide his choice of implement out from the shank of his boot. The Count pulled out his own handled leather strop and Isaak arched a brow and let a smile creep.  
  
“Most considerate, Excellency,” he opined. The leather was tanned and the edges were rounded. It was obviously new– it would leave marks but the skin would remain intact. Green eyes scanned Dietrich’s flawless back then roved over his equally smooth backside and thighs. The boy’s cries had quieted somewhat but he still sobbed against the door, his forehead pressed against the unforgiving wood. The fresh wounds on his hands bled little. However, Krstovar surmised the myriad nerve endings in the hand were likely screaming in pain and it wouldn’t be long before that pain radiated up Dietrich’s outstretched arms and into his shoulder joints.  
  
He softly tapped the strop along his outer thigh as he assessed the captive and Isaak watched his measured pace. He dropped his cigarillo to the ground and pressed it beneath the toe of his boot. The Marquis stopped just behind Dietrich and drew a bare hand down his back, haulting now and then to gently palpate a muscle. Dietrich breathed through the pain that burned his hands but found the starch to glare at the raven-haired noble over his shoulder. “Didn’t expect _you_ of all people to manhandle me, Your Holy Rectitude,” he breathed and a nasty smile bloomed on his lips. A caramel eye narrowed. “Like what you see, Kris?”  
The Count concluded his evaluation with a soft, open-handed smack to the teen’s flank, ignoring the commentary. He bent to speak into Dietrich’s ear.  
  
“I had advised Isaak to beat some manners into you. Nailed up, I’m intrigued that you still find your defiant tongue.” Krstovar snorted, his breath puffing the cinnamon locks. “Were you mine, I would have cut it out and fed it to you,” he murmured. “However, I suppose this will have to suffice.” The Marquis drew a hand down his back and he nudged the instep of the teen’s bare foot with the side of his boot, encouraging his quarry to adopt a wider stance. His fingertips fell away and Krstovar held the strop against the door, in front of Dietrich’s face. “Now then,” he whispered. “Kiss the implement that will deliver you from your iniquity, boy,” he firmly commanded and Dietrich looked at the tanned leather.  
  
“Get bent, Niš!” he growled lowly then spit on the tool but his lips met the hard leather by way of a hand at the back of his head. Nicking his lower lip on the edge of a tooth, Dietrich licked the faint sheen of blood from them and swallowed the scant mouthful with a grimace. Krstovar dropped both of his arms amid a throaty chuckle then murdered Dietrich’s ear again, his fangs flashing unseen by the condemned. “The sight of you nailed up here is both disgusting and delectable… a delicious martyr.” The Marquis echoed the empty threat the redhead had delivered in Skopje. “Though I wouldn’t bank on canonisation.”  
He turned and bowed his chin to Cain and Isaak then swiftly faced Dietrich and let the first harsh lash fly across his upper back.  
  
Isaak could appreciate a master when he saw one. Twenty seconds between strokes, enough for the pain to bloom and be registered by the brain before the next strike came. The Count varied the area hit each time and not one laceration opened on his boy’s beautiful skin– he almost wished this had been administered for his audience of one.  
He had schooled Dietrich on the art of control the night before but the delicious contusions that bloomed like deadly florets along the expanse of flesh were a siren’s call to Isaak’s baser desires. Desires that hungered to be assuaged to the tune of Dietrich’s dulcet screams. Though to his credit, the magician outwardly appeared in perfect control.  
  
Like a pistol shot, the strop made solid contact with Dietrich’s backside and his head snapped backwards, his lips relinquishing an anguished cry. The force of the hit drove his body forward, pulling on his affixed hands. White, searing pain exploded throughout him, countless nerve endings passing along the brutal message and Dietrich trembled uncontrollably as he awaited the next blow.  
  
Several minutes had passed and Krstovar finally lowered the strop. He ran a hand through his rough-cut hair then handed off the implement to a servant to be cleaned and oiled. Dietrich teetered on the brink of consciousness, his head rolling on his neck. His flesh glistened with sweat and his face was moist with tears that had fallen with the horrid punishment. The teen’s hands had gone numb, as did his right shoulder and he rested his forehead against the door, filling his lungs with burning breaths. The pain from the strapping was much less important than the loss of pride and the humiliation resulting from being tied down and subjected to a childish punishment in the presence of the other members of the Orden. If he lived, Dietrich knew his embarrassment would prove to be a barb with which they could torment him.  
  
Krstovar claimed his outer vestment from Helga with a slight smile and he briefly tickled a finger beneath her chin. “Thank you, my dear,” he drawled and Cain dismissed the company with a nod. The officers filed out of the courtyard, talking amongst themselves about what they’d just witnessed. Isaak spared his boy a glance then approached him, grey eyes gliding over the budding contusions. A tear that hung on Dietrich’s lashes was absorbed by the tip of Isaak’s glove.  
  
“Meister…”  
  
Even, pearly fangs met the light of a nearby brazier as Isaak smiled and he pet a hand through the boy’s damp hair. “ ‘There is nothing in this world so insipid as the devil in despair.’ – von Goethe,” he purred then paced toward the other two males. “I believe supper awaits us in the dining hall, Mein Herr; Your Excellency,” he smoothly informed them and the sounds of their boots evenly crossing the brick path echoed in Dietrich’s ears.


	5. Verflucht wer mit dem Teufel spielt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ennui breeds duplicity and Dietrich finds it is truly a double-edged sword.  
> Prompt: “It is double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.”

On the evening of the second day, Guderian had driven the Marquis of Macedonia to the Flughafen and Isaak made his report to Cain while the Hunters he now controlled had moved Dietrich to a small anteroom in the basement of the mansion. The deal between the Orden and Krstovar had been finalised earlier that evening– each party satisfied with their portion of the alliance. To the outside eye, it was a simple trade agreement; stores of titanium for premium prices, but it extended beyond that. Macedonia would always be a wedge between the Vatican and the Empire, and Cain wanted to keep it that way. There would be further discussion on how exactly to use the tiny Marquisate to their ultimate advantage in future.  
  
Isaak entered the small area next to the lab Dietrich employed to tinker with his Hunters. He flipped on the bank of lights over the exam table then walked up to where Dietrich lay on his front. His arms were at his sides and the magician looked down at his bare flesh. The boy’s eyes were closed and Isaak ran a hand down his back then over the rise of his rear, his fingers falling away at the thigh.  
The raven moved a thick strand of hair from Dietrich’s turned face, tucking it behind his ear. He turned his hand to tap the backs of his fingers against the teen’s cheek. “Dietrich,” he called, his eyes lighting on the red, swollen joint of his right shoulder. Isaak tsked as he stepped away to peer into a nearby cabinet, gathering a few supplies that he brought back to the table and set them on a mayo stand.  
  
Isaak broke an ammonium carbonate tablet beneath Dietrich’s nose and watched his eyes flutter then slowly open. The mage set the capsule on the table next to his nose, waiting for the boy to become fully coherent. When a caramel eye rolled up look at him, the mage smirked. “Good evening, mein lieber Junge,” he said with a wicked smirk then quipped: “Welcome back from the dead.” Isaak slipped off his jacket and laid it on an empty section of countertop. Dietrich could only breathe and that was proving to be a chore in and of itself. When he tried to lift one of his hands to look at it, the limb failed to obey and he let out a soft moan.  
  
“Where am I?” he asked, his voice no greater than a whisper, which Isaak remedied with a thick concoction he spooned into the redhead’s mouth and held it shut until he swallowed. The magician set the utensil aside in favour of the various ointments, gauzes and such that littered the surface of his mayo stand.  
  
“Precisely where you were a few days ago, Dietrich,” he replied casually, uncapping a small container of salve. Isaak unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves. A pair of bandage scissors sounded as he cut a small square and placed it next to a pair of ring hemostats. Dietrich cleared his throat, urging his voice into working order– though any resemblance to what came out of his mouth and his own melodious tenor was purely coincidental.  
  
“I can’t feel my right arm, Isaak,” he complained, his voice cracking unpleasantly. Dietrich swallowed the spit beneath his tongue and let out a sigh when the raven pet his hair again.  
  
“Yes, well you’ve dislocated your shoulder, haven’t you,” he stated then began to clinically assess Dietrich’s condition. “Hmm… multiple contusions with no abrasion– upper left and right quadrants.” His hand glided over each part. “Unremarkable lower quadrant, superiour to the glutaei. Bilateral contusions present on glutaei and upper posteriour thighs.” The bruises had deepened to shades of purple with sickening puce coronae and Isaak traced the borders of one that laid on his right cheek. “His Excellency certainly painted you in a colourful palate, Liebling,” Isaak remarked and let a low whistle fly.  
  
“Fuck him,” Dietrich groaned impassively and the mage snorted then prepared a square of gauze that he clamped with the loop hemostat. He carefully lowered it to the small hole in the boy’s right hand.  
  
“Have you learned nothing?” he asked crisply and began cleaning the wound. The ointment stung when first touching the raw puncture but imparted its numbing properties when the air hit it.  
  
“That wop bastard still here?”  
  
“I think it would pay you to come to the healthy conclusion that you got off easy. Mein Herr doesn’t give second chances,” Isaak schooled then set down the instrument, turned his attention again to the right shoulder joint and voiced his aside. “No, his flight was earlier this evening… and I believe the proper epithet is _wog_ , Geliebter.” The retort that waited on Dietrich’s lips was traded for a yelp when his mentor dropped the limb off the edge of the table.  
  
“Goddamnit!”  
  
“I’m going to have to pop the humerus back into place, Dietrich.”  
  
“It fucking hurts!”  
  
“Bear with it. Unless you’d rather lose range of motion,” Isaak countered and Dietrich turned his head away from him. The magician wrapped a hand around his elbow, the palm of his other against the back of Dietrich’s shoulder and he pushed it down into the unforgiving table, while lifting the elbow toward himself. The teen cried out as the humeral head popped back into socket. The limb lay palm up at Dietrich’s side and he breathed through the pain, though his shoulder did feel a little better.  
He watched Isaak sit on a rolling stool at his left, adjusting the mayo stand to a convenient height and his eyes lit on the unopened packages of vicryl as the raven cleaned the wound on his hand.  
  
“The salve is an accelerant and an analgesic,” he explained then pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and opened a package of suture. Isaak clamped the small curved needle with a straight-nose hemostat. Dietrich’s eye widened and the mage smiled at him. “Relax, my dear.”  
Isaak stitched the hole and turned the teen’s hand to do the same for the exit wound. Dietrich evenly breathed, surprised he couldn’t feel each prick of the needle, nor the pull of the thin fibre through his skin. Isaak tied off a tiny knot, snipped the excess and wrapped the boy’s hand with a length of bandage. By the time he’d finished the right hand, Dietrich’s eyes were clearer and his head didn’t feel like it was full of cotton. His back, ass and legs still throbbed but he managed to crane his head off the table to look at Isaak full-on.  
  
“Can I have some of that stuff for my back and all that?” he asked and Isaak silently chuckled while he cleaned up his workstation. He peered at the redhead from over his shoulder.  
  
“Do you really need to ask me that? Your smart mouth and poor judgement have reaped those stripes, Dietrich.” he replied and disposed of the gloves.  
  
“How in the hell am I supposed to do my work, Isaak?!” Dietrich snapped. He slowly raised to a hip, the discomfort of doing so radiating through all the muscles it took to manage the position. His eyes screwed shut then opened again after a few breaths. Isaak licked his lips– sometimes the boy just _walked_ into it.  
  
“Obviously you won’t be conducting it on your back, mein Schatz,” he knifed with a sharp smile. “Might be a refreshing change, hmm?” Dietrich frowned and caught the folded sheet the magician threw at him.  
  
“I can’t even sit properly,” he protested and covered his lower half as best he could. Isaak sighed then faced him.  
  
“ ‘The blueness of a wound cleanseth away evil: so do stripes the inward parts of the belly.’– Proverbs twenty, verse thirty.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake! They’re just bruises. Megadoses of L-ascorbic acid and zinc and you’ll be right as rain in a few days.” Isaak retrieved his jacket, folding it over an arm and Dietrich let a nasty smile percolate as he gingerly got to his feet, though having to hold onto the table until he got his balance.  
  
“I guess it goes without saying that it’s gonna be a long week for you,” he jeered, blindly tucking the corner of the sheet at his waist. “Not being able to have me...” Isaak knew Dietrich was trying his damndest to get under his skin but a warm smile broke and a finger tilted the teen’s chin up so eyes could meet.  
  
“I’m sure it will be a long week, indeed. Rife with your incessant complaining every time you get a twinge in your fanny.” Isaak softly smacked Dietrich’s cheek then let his hand drop. “No change there, then,” he added and waved his protégé to the door with a mocking bow.  
  
  
  
Krstovar sat at his desk, the surface riddled with papers– material acquisitions he’d filed with the Vatican for the construction they’d started on the new Memorial House. A long, grueling three month process of having to play host to a contingency of Roman workers in his city and the scatterbrained priest envoy leading the parade.  
  
Abel wasn’t so bad and at any rate, the man was easily placated with the abundance of food and sweets he was afforded as the Marquis’ guest. It was Krstovar’s distinct pleasure to sign off the final documentation. He set the parchment aside and holstered his pen then sat back in his chair, fingers steepled. If he had his way, he’d abolish the Church in Macedonia, but those roots ran deep and the peace it seemed to impart on his subjects– he conceded– was worth the occasional headache.  
  
Once again, Nightroad had ensured Krstovar would have any level of protection he wished, which he politely declined. It was beginning to smack of proselytising, but the Marquis maintained his cool indifference and had congenially wished them well on the trip back to the Vatican.  
  
His next task would be to address the _other_ matter.  
  
If the tragedy that befell Gyula had taught Krstovar anything, it was that the Rosenkreuz Orden didn’t do anything by halves. They had already installed a Terran to head the Marquisate of Hungary. Coincidentally, he’d been informed by Father Nightroad that the new leader had been hand-selected by Rome. Krstovar could appreciate the irony.  
He had no quarrel with the Empire nor the Vatican– when both kept to themselves. His Terran subjects had equal opportunity, as did the Methuselah that called Macedonia home. The people were happy with the additional work his contract with the Orden had provided and the impoverished quarters of Skopje and other major cities were slated for future revitalisation projects.  
  
Days of meetings with the governors of those cities had kept Krstovar busy, but were profitable. As he sat in his chair, idly staring out into garden and the encroaching night, he knew he was not about to build up the Marquisate just to have someone else come in and claim it for themselves– be it the Empire, the Vatican or the Orden. Macedonia and her people were _his_!  
  
  
  
Dietrich had been without the control of his Autojägers and– as a consequence of the crucifixion– limited in the use of his neurostrings. Effectively, he was grounded; as Isaak took great pleasure in pointing out. Each attempt to irritate the mage had been rebuffed, every seductive glance into hard, grey eyes patently ignored. Isaak had even gone so far as to order Dietrich to stand in the corner like a child, which the teen vehemently protested.

  
In short, the redhead had cabin fever.  
  
Isaak entered his office to find his protégé sitting on the leather sofa, a dejected look on his cherubim face. As soon as he came in, Dietrich crossed his arms and looked over at Panzermagier. Isaak walked over to his desk and tossed a few pieces of mail onto the surface, Dietrich’s narrowed eyes following him. “Did you talk to him?” he asked, a knee bobbing with his annoyance. The raven stood at the side of his desk and slid a letter opener beneath the seal of an envelope. Grey raised beneath thin, black brows as the paper tore.  
  
“Yes…”  
  
“And?!” Dietrich quickly remarked, his fingers drumming against his upper arm and Isaak softly set down the letter opener, momentarily disregarding the boy as he read the letter. A quiet smile crossed his face then dropped when Dietrich’s impatient sigh floated across the room.  
  
“Bearing, Dietrich,” Isaak blandly counselled then folded up the paper and stuffed it back into the envelope. The boy took a slow, silent breath and let the corners of his mouth curl up in a patronising smile while waiting for the man to respond. He neatly stacked the few other envelopes at the corner of his desk then met Dietrich’s gaze. “Your reinstatement of sorts has been delegated to my judgement,” he explained and the smile grew on the teen’s face and his arms then draped along the back of the furniture.  
  
“So,” he drawled and cocked his head, his smile turning coy. “All up to you, hmm?” Isaak moved in front of the desk and fit Dietrich with a stern look.  
  
“Knock it off, boy,” he countered and went to his sideboard to pour a snifter of brandy. The chrystal stopper fit into the bottleneck and he faced the youth, drink in hand. Dietrich crossed his long legs with an arrogant lift of his chin.  
  
“Nothing’s for nothing, Isaak. You were the one that taught me that tidy, little gem,” he said, the tips of his fingers gliding over the butter-soft leather beneath them. “I am quite familiar with your favourite bargaining chip.” Dietrich lowered a hand to open his jacket and Isaak shook his head with a snort.  
  
“Put it away, Dietrich. I’m willing to loosen your chain,” he informed him and took a sip of the brandy, enjoying the warm slide down his throat. The redhead buttoned the garment and employed the armrest, his fingers reverting to a quiet drumming.  
  
“Oh? Does it involve wearing a traditional folk costume and hand-delivering a message to that prick Niš– _again_?” he deadpanned and a smile rose over the rim of the magician’s snifter.  
  
“I thought you looked rather nice in a skirt,” he quipped and Dietrich glared at him.  
  
“Fuck you and it wasn’t a skirt!”  
  
Isaak tipped the remainder of his drink down his throat then set the glass down and went to a brass hall tree near the door. He donned the calf-length, Orden-issue dresscoat over his uniform jacket and rolled his gaze onto his protégé. “Stand up, Dietrich,” he ordered and the teen got to his feet. Isaak folded hands behind his back as he paced up to the younger man then spent a few moments looking him over, as if assessing him. Just when the scrutiny was becoming unbearable, the mage spoke: “I have a task for you. Well-suited to your abilities, I believe,” he informed him then took one of Dietrich’s hands in his. “Your _mental_ abilities, naturally.” He peered down at the palm that bore a small scar and turned it to see a similar cicatrix on the back of it. “The marks of your iniquity are healing well; I’m pleased.”  
  
Dietrich glared with the slight, ignoring the comment about his hand. “What do you want me to do, Isaak? I’m going fucking crazy just sitting here! You make me stand in the goddamned corner like a kid while you do god-knows-what. You make me write my reports to you in fucking Sanskrit– “  
  
“Dietrich,” the deep tenor warned but it went unheeded as the boy continued.  
  
“And I can’t even remember the last time you fucked me!” He jerked his hand out of Isaak’s grip. “You don’t let me do anything except your amusing little errands that give you some sort of cheap thrill! Whatever it is, let me do it!” Isaak’s hand cracked sharply across the youth’s face.  
  
“As long as Cain lets you live, you’re _mine_ , boy!” Isaak growled, the common address of the Crusnik disregarded. His hand clamped Dietrich’s chin. “If I wish to put your unruly ass in the corner for a night because I can’t stand the sight of you, I will. If I order you to carve your reports on a stone tablet in Aramaic, you will.” His fingertips pressed small, red circles in their hold. “Whatever I want you to do or not do, you _will_ comply!” Isaak’s demeanour softened considerably and his fingers glided along the angle of the teen’s jaw. “Because if you don’t and you fuck this up, I won’t hesitate to kill you myself– Liebling,” he threatened, though in a silky voice and Dietrich had the good sense to know the man was serious.  
  
“Of course, Meister,” he murmured, sufficiently humbled. Isaak fingered a strand of cinnamon hair, twining the lock around the digit before letting it fall back into place. He retrieved a dossier from his desk then handed it to Dietrich.  
  
“That is Professor James Barrie, late of Londinium University,” he explained as caramel eyes roved over the small black and white photo that was paperclipped on the outside of the folder. He opened it to skim over the demographics while his mentor briefed him. “Last known address is Napier Close, West Kensington, though I will allow that is old information.” Dietrich closed the folder and peered up through his bangs.  
  
“You sure he’s still alive? He looks old.”  
  
“Yes and you need to do this quickly as the Vatican are looking into one of his side projects,” Isaak stated and his eyes glided down Dietrich’s frame. “Leave the uniform at home this once. You have a week.” The young man cocked his head with a slight smirk.  
  
“I got this, Isaak,” he confidently declared, his brow then softly furrowing. “Where are _you_ going?” The mage peered at his own reflection the ornate mirror above a narrow table that stood on the wall of the door. He adjusted his collar and buttoned the dresscoat, looking at Dietrich through the glass.  
  
“I have an appointment with someone who is interested in contracting our services, my dear,” Isaak answered and patted the breast pocket of his coat, ensuring his cigarillo case was there. “Which is why I want to see Barrie in this office within a week.”  
  
“Understood.”  
  
The mage’s smile bloomed into a dark smirk. “After all, it would be a shame if we couldn’t provide a loving uncle with the means to give his dead brother’s children a token of familial affection.” His hand cupped Dietrich’s cheek, the tips of his fangs peeking behind parted lips. “Do you not agree, childe?” Dietrich knew it was a rhetorical question at best and he copied the raven’s smile. Isaak’s hand petted through the boy’s hair, a finger arcing around the redhead’s throat to tilt his chin up, his voice falling to a breathy whisper. “Now, give us a kiss,” he quietly commanded and their lips barely touched for a breath then firmly pressed together.  
  
Dietrich opened his mouth further in invitation and Isaak’s velvet tongue slipped inside to languidly tangle with his protégé’s. A soft moan vibrated on the teen’s throat and just when he was getting into the smoky, spicy flavour of Isaak’s mouth, the magician moved away. Gloved fingers glided over Dietrich’s chin as he departed with a knowing smirk. “Be good, Dietrich,” he instructed in a dark purr, his hand turning the doorknob.  
  
“Always am,” Dietrich replied, the tip of his tongue sampling the taste of their kiss from his lower lip.  
  
Isaak looked askance at him with an ominous smile, steel-grey holding his gaze for a tense moment. He then stepped out into the corridor, shutting the door behind him.  
  
~~end~~


End file.
